I may never be an athlete, but my facial expressions surely qualify for the Special Olympics.

So despite my crippling anxieties and moments of self-doubt, I did complete the Canberra Half Marathon on Sunday. AND I survived, which at times felt unlikely.

The preparatory things on my lists almost all amounted to nothing: my mum was sick and unable to come to Canberra for the race (thus I did not have her to cuddle me at the end or buy me ice cream), I did not go to yoga the day before, I did not visit the old-fashioned candy store, I did not go to bed by 10pm.

Instead, I slept in and slothed around all day Saturday. That night, I stayed up til 3am, eating nachos, poptarts, leftover KFC (you'll be pleased to know I did complete that item from my list), and an entire pack of Tim Tams.  Because, you know, binging on junk food (all of which typically upsets your tummy at the best of times) is ALWAYS a smart thing to do the night before an athletic event. You heard it here first.

2.5 hours later, it was Sunday morning. I snoozed my alarm approximately 13 times, didn't eat breakfast, sped to the race, getting dressed in the car.

It poured with rain, my pretty shoes got soaked. Sopping wet socks led to enormous, juicy, soggy, waterlogged blisters.

The slight cold I'd been feeling brewing for a few days finally reared its ugly head. My chest ached and my lungs burned and my entire body felt like it was made of lead. I wheezed and coughed and spluttered the whole way. Every step felt like I was dragging myself out of quicksand.

Nonetheless, I kept going, with teeth gritted. For much of the race I ran with my eyes closed, occasionally bursting out a lyric from whatever song was on my iPod........"REAL SLIM SHADY YEAH I'M THE REAL SHADY".........."GONNA BRING YOU TO YOUR SHA-NA-NA-NA-NA-NA-KNEES! KNEES!".............."HOMEGIRL TAKE YOUR MOTHERFUCKING SHIRT OFF!"... etc.

But whatever, I finished. It sucked and hurt and some REALLY FRIGGING CREEPY MAN WHO'D POOPED HIS PANTS AT KILOMETRE #6 DECIDED TO BEFRIEND ME, but I finished nonethless. Way slower than I wanted (1:53... I wanted sub 1:45), but all things considered, I'll take it.

Now, I felt bad after my last entry because there were no pretty pictures. And if you guys have an attention span like mine, you require pretty pictures.

Sadly, I do not have any "PRETTY PICTURES" to share with you. Instead, I bring you...

HALF MARATHON PICTURES. Or: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH LIZZI'S FACE. OH SWEET JESUS.

 This is my 'GET BACK MOTHERFUCKER, YOU DON'T KNOW ME LIKE THAT!' face. Even the man behind me is like '....oh...my.....lordddd...'
[for the record he is not the one who crapped himself]

Let's take a closer look:

Yep. I second your sentiments, alarmed running fellow. Oh. My. Lord. Fierce.

Next, we have this little gem...

This is my 'Singing along to Whitney Houston while engaging in slightly painful sex' face.

Oooh baby.

Next we have my 'Auditioning for the Wicked Witch of the West in the scene where "I'M MEEELLLTTTINGGGGGgg"' face.

On closer inspection, you will notice the streaks of mascara down my cheeks...

Now, before ya'll get all up in my grill about what a dumbass I am, allow me to clarify: I am not vain or stupid. I did not decide that wearing makeup was a good idea when running 21kms in the rain. No, I did not do that. Instead, I am forced to admit that I am a grub who struggles with basic hygiene practices and this is, in fact, the remnants of my mascara from the day before. I'm glad we cleared that up.

The one last photo I have isn't soooo bad, despite the weird vagina/buttcheek/i-don't-even-know I seem to have grown in my inner left thigh...

This is the picture I will show my grandchildren. Because, for one brief moment - despite my thighgina - I appear to be winning.

And, on days like Sunday, appearances sometimes count more than the real thing.