Thirteen.

For some, it’s considered unlucky. For me, thirteen was the number of years between my two hospitalizations for depression. These years represented a time period of ups and downs, of profound despair intermixed with times of joy. My two hospitalizations were bookends for a tumultuous time in my life.

Now, thirteen is my number of hope.

It’s amazing. Really, I don’t get it. I drag my sluggish, tired bones to the gym, get on the treadmill, and begin to lift my lead-filled legs…one-by-one. My internal thoughts generally adhere to a timeline similar to this:

Minute 2: I’m going to die. There’s no way I was able to do this yesterday. It must have been a dream.

Minute 4: Man alive! You’ve got to be kidding me! How long have I been running? At least 20 or 30 minutes.

Minute 9: Seriously?

As much time as I spend blogging about running, planning my runs, picking out cute running outfits, reading Runner’s World, or actually running, you would think that I was a pretty good runner. You would think that I was quick, light on my feet, full of running prowess, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings…no, wait. That’s Superman. But as much focus as I put on running, you would think that I was pretty good. You would think. And you would be wrong.

So, the plan was for us to drive to San Antonio today. The plan was for me to run a half marathon in the San Antonio Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon on Sunday. And here I am. Blogging to you from Dallas. Plans change.

I signed up for this half marathon two weeks after I ran my first half marathon last April. Somehow, along the way, I got off track with my training. It happens. And as The Gambler, as well as a friend of mine, said, “You got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away, and know when to run.” So, this time I won't be doing any running. But, I would like to add: “And know when to give yourself a breather.”