It was a long weekend spent mostly in the car and at a wake. We ate too much of the wrong sort of food, and either sat for hours or stood without moving for too long. And all this on not quite enough sleep. Let's just say I was aching for exercise when I got up this morning. But yeesh, rain. And lots of it. I don't mind the cold - I run throughout the winter in temperatures that are just plain stupid - but I don't particularly like getting wet. Having my socks get squishy inside my running shoes isn't my idea of fun. And the poor pup, who's also quite wet, shakes it off at various intervals, hitting my legs in the process.

Bleh. And then you have to hang up your clothes when you get in so they can drip dry before you can deal with them. And you also have to get the dog towel-dry before he shakes it off onto the walls. I mean, it's not that big an ordeal, but to me it's a hassle and the one element that shakes my resolve to jog.

I went anyway. I was out before 6 am and ran a solid 4 miles. My raincoat quickly got saturated, my socks started squishing inside my shoes within minutes, and the dog was soaked. But now that I'm back, dry and clean with a pup ditto, I'm extremely happy I went. It was a good run, and now I feel all virtuous. Plus my weekend funk is mostly gone.

I'm not writing this to boast (no, really), but rather to force myself to remember that I never feel so good as I do after I push myself to do something that doesn't tempt me one bit. That I never feel so alive as I do when I successfully slay a hassle (if you'll pardon the metaphor). Because life is an adventure, and adventures sometimes mean getting wet.

Even when you don't feel like it.