I hate hills and I’m pretty sure they hate me. Those mounds of pure evil. The perfect test of endurance and patience. ‘Hill’ is just one letter away from ‘Hell’, and that’s no coincidence.
Ah, chest crushing, legs-falling-off, pain inducing hills.
Hills.. I hate them even more than stairs, which is a lot. I mutter and groan as I climb them and even after I’ve done it, I don’t feel good. You know the saying “No pain, no gain!”, well, a normal, healthy, twenty-two year old wouldn’t struggle to climb hills and nearly die in the process. They would gain the feeling afterwards of being fit, a slightly more toned tushy and a sense of achievement.
Me? I just feel grumpy. I want a gallon of water, my bed and some grapes fed to me, after climbing a hill.
“All pain, no gain!” is what the saying should be!
And do you know what the worst bit is? My doctors surgery sits on the top of two very steep hills, and I have to climb two, YES, TWO steep hills in order to get to the surgery. And as you can imagine, I need to go to the doctors often, so this isn’t fun. The irony of needing to go to the doctors for the very reasons that make it difficult for me to climb the hills it sits on and get to said doctors surgery, is painful.
Oh, and don’t even get me started on my twisted surname. I’ll give you a clue. It begins with H.
Rachel, The Invisible Hypothyroidism
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