At the store yesterday, he asked for this Justin Bieber birthday balloon.
I said "no, silly, it's not even a birthday balloon" and went back to buy it later.
For his birthday breakfast he picked a box of Cookie Crisp cereal. Exotic. It is actually somewhat tasty. Not that I ripped the box open last night after he was asleep and ate fifteen fistfuls or anything like that.
In the box is a pair of blue suede shoes.
Blue suede skater-boy hightops he circled in a Mini Boden mail order catalog. He is so, so excited about those shoes. "Do you think the shoes might come on the morning of my birthday, so I can wear them to school?"
Dear God,
It is the morning of his birthday. Please do not let any punk-ass weasels at school make fun of those shoes, or say they don't make him look like whomever it is he thinks they make him look like (AND I THINK WE ALL KNOW WHO THAT IS).
I am sending rock star cupcakes and Rapunzel ones for the girls, if that helps at all.
Alas, more things that chap my ass. Displayed in no particular order.
High Level Executives with Cutesy Titles: If you are, say, the Chief Technology Officer of a large organization, just say so. There's no need to be adorable and aww-shucksy about it, refering to yourself on your business card as "Chief Button Masher" or "Head Electron Wrangler".
People Whose Solution to Weight Loss is "Just Don't Keep Junk Food in the House": You grossly underestimate the power of a driver's license and my ability to use it.
People Who Read a Brilliant Piece of Humor Writing by Someone Like Tina Fey and Forward it On, Saying "I Couldn't Have Said It Better Myself": Damn ass straight you couldn't. To which address would you like me to send your Understatement of the Year award?
People Who Follow Up Their Opinions on Facebook By Saying "Just My Opinion": Really? Thank god you said something. Because that statement of yours was so brilliantly crafted that for a second there I thought you were issuing some kind of EDICT. I'll call the plaque engraving company and cancel my order.
We're wrapping up the school year with a giant bow of frenzied activity--
school plays, field days, fun runs, soccer games, pinatas (that need to be stuffed), costumes (Charlie Brown! Flamenco boy!), graduations, celebrations, birthday parties and bounce houses, and blue suede hightops, handpicked and circled in a mail-order catalog by a certain someone who is turning seven ...
And as the old saying goes, that which does not kill us will likely result in a stress fracture or other pesky injury of that nature.
Do you realize how far 26.2 miles is?
I had no idea.
No idea.
No idea until mile 22, when I was like ARE YOU KIDDING ME? FOUR MORE MILES?!? That’s like … FOUR MORE MILES. WHOSE STUPID BULLSHIT CRAP-ASS IDEA WAS THIS? I AM FEELING VERY ANGRY. THIS PARK IS UGLY. STUPID GEESE.
But I did it. I ran all 26.2 miles, without stopping, chafing, panicking, peeing, crying, or spraying diarrhea on anyone!
Myself <------ Winner!
For the first 18 miles I was borderline euphoric. It was a gorgeous day, sunny, high 60s for most of the race, what I consider perfect conditions. And I felt great. I was thrumming along on pace to finish in 3:45, and up until mile 21 I stayed right with the pacer. I’d done everything according to my pre-race plan. I alternated water and Cytomax at every stop, not overdoing it, but getting enough to stay hydrated. I took salt packets when they were offered. I smiled at people and high-fived little kids and ate that godforsaken GU every 5 miles. I didn’t go out too fast. Or too slow. I felt GREAT. Great! Great! Great! Wheeeeeeee! Marathons are fun!!!
Until around Mile 20.
There’s a reason they say “a marathon is not a race until mile 20”. Because at mile 20, I felt the first twinge in my legs. Not a dead-on cramp, but the suggestion that my legs were considering it. Like two bitchy mean girls giving me smirky looks, they wouldn’t come right out and say anything cruel about my Trapper Keeper until mile 21, but they were thinking it. And they didn't like my visor.
I saw Larry and the boys at mile 20, and my Grandmother and Uncle Greg and Aunt Brenda, who made these awesome signs.
It is not hard to get to know me. At all.
That motivated me into mile 21.
Which is when I knew my legs weren’t kidding. Cramp. Cramp. Step, step, step, step, cramp.
I have long suffered from debilitating post-run leg and foot cramps that make it impossible to do anything but stand in the middle of my kitchen screaming WHYYYYY WHYYY, while the boys fantasize about what it would be like to have a real mom, who has dignity and self-control. So when the cramps started in earnest, I felt like I had to decide: Do I stick with the pacer and risk ending the race in Shelby Bottoms lying in goose poop wailing WHYYYYYY WHYYYYY, OR do I dial it back and just accept that I’m not going to qualify for Boston today or probably ever, @#$%! GRRRRRR.
At the end of childbirth, they give you a baby! (AND IT DOESN'T HURT ANYMORE!)
At the end of the marathon? You get a medal shaped like a guitar pick and it takes you approximately forty-five minutes to shuffle like a post-op geriatric from the finish line to the water station that is five yards away.
Walking was an issue is what I’m saying.
In the end, I finished in a respectable three hours and fifty-two minutes (and ten seconds), thanks in no small part to the most awesome training team EVER. Love these guys.
In the end, what I'm most proud of is having trained for this thing. I'm most proud of the 500 miles before the 26.2 that may or may not have caused a stress fracture in my right foot (jury is still out, but I am cautiously optimistic. It seems to be getting better instead of worse.)
In the meantime, I'm using the elliptical to ward off mental illness (this is the first time in over a year I've gone more than two days without running), and I'm really looking forward to my next HALF MARATHON in September.
