Several years ago, TB and I had a conversation that went something like this: “If there was a Zombie Apocalypse, you would trip me.” To which I could only reply, “Of course I would. I’d never outrun you; and you know what they say… you don’t have to be first, you just can’t be last.” All jokes aside, I’ve decided to train for a marathon, and I don’t even mean the kind that starts on Saturday morning, includes pizza, and involves one hundred twenty one, back-to-back episodes of Lost. Though, in the spirit of full disclosure, that may be the only kind I ever finish.
But I digress; the point is that, as someone who comes from a long line of bad hearts and whose cholesterol is 241, I need to do something or I’m going to stroke out… and not in a hot way… more in a oh-my-wow- is-there-a-black-market-Twinkie-in-that-dead-woman’s-mouth kind of way. So here’s my plan. Even though I run like the poster child for Ritalin, and you wouldn’t make eye contact if you saw me on a treadmill, I’m going to do a few 5Ks, work my way up to a relay-style marathon, do a half marathon, and then do the full enchilada—26 miles and change; all the while praying that I don’t shit myself in public… which I’ve read CAN ACTUALLY HAPPEN if you run more than your mouth or errands. Not that I would know.
With that, I downloaded a virtual trainer and bought, “The Non-Runner’s Marathon Guide for Women” by Dawn Dais. The friend who recommended it said, “You’ll love it. The author hates running, and it’s not her biggest fan either; but, if she can do it, you can do it. This is a woman whose fitness routine included avoiding the stairs in her own house. She’s just like you.” Yes, really. Granted, the friend who said that went on to explain chaffing, then added, “It’s not that bad. People will be there handing out Vaseline if you need it.” I’m not kidding you. That’s a real thing. Complete strangers stand at check points and hand out petroleum jelly. I don’t know if I’d be flattered, offended or intrigued, but I do know this: if I were approached, I would go to my deathbed wondering why I was profiled, and I would never make peace with the fact that a person I’ve never met looked at me and thought, “That woman looks like she needs KY Jelly ASAP.”
Seriously, and that’s if THEY approach YOU. How in the HELL are YOU supposed to approach THEM, “Hi, are you the lube guy?” I can see it in my head right now. I’d be at mile 13, need it, find the volunteer, and there’d be a language barrier, so I'd end up shouting and using hand gestures... only to find out that this person is just in charge of handing out water… the lube guy was two miles back. It’d be horrid and sooooo par for the course. Maybe I shouldn’t do it. Maybe I should just run to the store for a bottle of wine instead. That’s way more my speed.
Talk to you later.