What a difference a day makes.

I am training for the ING GA marathon.

It is in less than a month.

I am in full-on freakout mode.

I have never done this before and I'm beginning to doubt that I can. Especially on bad days.

Bad like yesterday. It started out promising. Once freed from work (an epically boring day, at that...BORing. REALLY boring...I'm talking: stab-yourself-in-the-eyeballs, I-have-reached-the-end-of-the-internet, WHAT-AM-I-DOING-WITH-MY-LIFE boring), I bounced out the door to run a six-mile out-and-back. Considering I had finished a fairly successful 15- or 16-miler on this past Sunday, I thought: six! piece of cake! It was not a piece of cake. I quit after about 20 minutes of running, and headed home. I maybe went four miles...and walked half of it.

It was just one of those bad days, one of those bad runs. I ate barely anything for lunch, and five hours later was utterly exhausted after running five minutes.

This afternoon I decided I'd regroup and attempt another four-miler, or more if I could. Four is on my schedule for today--but I wanted to make up for yesterday. Driving home, I nearly talked myself out of it. Running in the windy coldness was flat-out the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to get a burrito and watch Real Housewives for three hours. But I got home, fed Marco, got dressed (and looked goob-tastic BTW...covered head-to-toe), put my watch on my wrist (over my outer-most layer!) and headed out.

It was a Forrest Gump run. One of those runs you don't want to end. I could see my breath and little else in the darkness, but it might as well have been 60 degrees and sunny. Ran up and down these Atlanta hills.

I can do this.