It’s no joke that I use this blog as vehicle to write a ton of superfluous drivel. Case in point: my pulled butt muscle blog post. I often surprise myself by some of the things I write; it’s as if there isn’t any filter between my brain and my fingertips preventing me from revealing the most absurd things about me. Despite my penchant for ridiculous (and verbose!) accounts of my mundane life, I take what I say seriously. The meaningful stuff, anyway. The other stuff? Well, that’s just how I occupy my time. Like I said, my life is pretty mundane.
So, you see, I do my best to tell a good tale, working with what I have. Or, more realistically, with what I DON’T have.
With that being said, there are several words or phrases that will never slip from my lips. Most of these forbidden words center around my lack of desire to be in close proximity to a snake, leave the house in disarray, do anything adventurous or eat foods with a looming expiration date. The things you’ll never hear me say are generally due to the fact that I have some strange, encumbering and down right odd fears and phobias.
But also, some of the things I don’t say are due to the fact that I don’t like to make empty claims. I make empty threats on occasion, just ask Caroline, but that’s a whole different story. And one that I’m not that proud of. Otherwise, if I say it, I’m pretty much going to do it. I may do it kicking and screaming, with an ugly attitude and questionable results, but I’ll do it.
I’m stubborn like that.
If you knew me years ago, or even one year ago, you would never hear me talk about running.
The mind and body torturing marathon.
Nope, not a peep from me.
Sure, I’ve mentioned Craig’s various running pursuits, but I would never have included myself in the category of aspiring marathoner. If I had to make a list of things I couldn’t do a year ago, running long distances would be at the top of the list. Along with remembering to clean the dryer lint trap, making tender pot roast and correctly subtracting big numbers in my checkbook.
This is the marathon sticker that has found a home on the back window of Craig’s car. I ordered it for him after he completed his first marathon back in October. Four+ months later, he is still nursing the overuse injury he acquired from his stringent training program. The battle scars only serve to further amplify the pride factor. I mean, really, a marathon is no laughing matter. It’s long, intense, grueling, painful and did I mention, long?
What I’m getting at is this: somehow, someway (and by using some MAJOR powers of persuasion), Craig convinced me that we should run a marathon together. I agreed, because, right now, it *sounds* like a fun idea. Sure it sounds fun now, but I’m not entirely convinced that this isn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever agreed to.
The plan is for us to run the Disney World Marathon in January 2011.
Craig plans to slow down his pace so that we can run together. For him, it’ll be a leisurely jaunt around Disney World. For me, um, not so much. While Craig is high fiving Goofy and blowing kisses to Tinkerbell, I’ll be huffing, puffing and working my legs into a hurried, smoking frenzy. Leaving a trail of blood, tears and curse words behind me as I plod through the happiest place on earth.
It’s quite possible that I might defile Disney World.
As I sit here and type this out, I can’t help but realize how ridiculous this whole scheme sounds. I guess it’s a good thing I have a habit of doing ridiculous things.
I can’t run a marathon. I’m built like a softball player.
I’m not long, lean or gazelle like.
The only race I’ve ever participated in was a 5k. 3.1 miles. A marathon is like a 40k!
My feet hurt after a three mile run. What are they going to feel like after 26.2 miles?
I’m not entirely sure Craig will be able to run as slow as me, but nevertheless, it’ll be fun for us to do something as a unit. We don’t do a whole lot together, besides, you know, co-exist. We do our daily junk; work, home, errands, watch TV, hide from the kid, but we don’t have any shared hobbies anymore. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that we ever had any shared hobbies.
I suddenly find this perplexing.
Before Caroline we did a lot more together. Obviously.
With the addition of our precious little spawn, the pre-kid, carefree life we once knew, took up on a jet aeroplane and flew far, far away. Quite sadly, it hasn’t been recovered yet.
If you find it, let me know. I sort of miss it.
That’s life. We deal. We do our duties; then we retire to our separate corners at the end of the day, (not so) secretly looking forward to the day Caroline is old enough to stay by herself. And, I’d like to add, can brush her teeth without spraying the mirror with toothpaste splatters. Wait, that’s just me. I know for a fact, and have conclusive evidence, that Craig doesn’t care one way or another about toothpaste splatters.
We crafted this crazy marathon plan back in November…just days before the deployment word was introduced. If all goes according to the Army’s plan, our race calendar won’t be affected. However, if the events leading up to Craig’s deployment and the plane flight of sheer horror that ensued, are any indication of the way the Army’s plans go, we might be in trouble. Our fingers are crossed that Craig will return home in a timely manner so we can start our marathon training in the fall.
Should life not go according to plan…well, I don’t really know. I’m pretty sure I’d run it alone because it is something I’d like to accomplish, however, I’d prefer to have a comrade by my side.
This marathon scheme seems like a
stupid lofty goal. My emotions teeter between excited and horrified. But mostly horrified excited. I’m stoked about the prospect of doing something physically and emotionally taxing. I kind of like the beating. Does that sound disturbing?
I don’t have a “bucket list” but this seems like the type of thing that belongs on such a list. I’ve always taken the easy road, never really pushing myself outside of my comfort zone. Perfectionists don’t like to fail, so it’s easier to stick with what you know.
I need a challenge.
I’m sort of stagnant. I need something to look forward to; something to push me and to force me to stretch and reach.
It’ll be painful.
It’s okay. I’m tough.
I’ll probably cry, anyway. And I’ll most definitely complain. The words “what have I done?” will probably be muttered on a continuous loop.
The one thing I keep repeating to Craig is, “I don’t want to hate it.”
He assures me I won’t.
I’d be lying if I said I believed him, but deep inside I keep hoping he’s right.