Those of you fervently convinced that I am a butter-fed lardball unable to extricate myself from the crevaces of my couch without the assistance of coolie labor will be surprised to hear that, over the weekend, I completed a half-marathon. Without hospitalization, or any attention from medical professionals. (Aside from the kissing, but that is an *entirely* different story.) Since that last chronology was so much fun, let's try another one:
Mile 1: People are passing me! I'm passing people! People are passing me! Too many people, too many feet! Ohhhh, I'm going to fall down. No, wait, I guess I'll just trip that girl instead. Oops.
Mile 3: Three miles already? Running is much more fun when it is not taking place on the nonexistent shoulder of a road with an unobeyed speed limit of 50. There are many, many wonderful things to contemplate when death is not imminent.
Mile 6: I feel wonderful. I am happy! Happy, happy, happy! Running is great! And the world is beautiful! Life is a joy, a joy! I do not need beer, not when there is running in the world! Oh, given the opportunity, I would hug myself and twirl around in gleeful circles. Instead, I will prance for awhile.
Mile 7: Someone is playing one of those big alpine horns that I associate with the Matterhorn ride at Disney World. And yodelers. And Ricola. What are those things called? I contemplate this for three quarters of a mile, do not arrive at an answer, and proceed to forget the question. Running does not make me smarter.
Mile 8: One member of a posse of Asian men drops back to inquire how many miles remain. I tell him, "five miles." He scowls and repeats the question. I repeat the answer. He runs forward to confer with his cadre. They shake their heads, gesticulate frantically, and send him back to me. He this time asks how long the race is. I tell him, "Thirteen miles. Eight plus five equals thirteen." He looks dismayed. He runs forward. Upon hearing the news, the brotherhood looks equally confused and dismayed. I speculate wildly as to the circumstances leading up to a state of affairs wherein this particular moment is the first point at which they have made this inquiry. Not while signing up for the race. Not while getting on the bus. Not at the starting line. At the eight-mile marker.
Mile 10.5: Oh sweet angelic mother of all that is holy and sacred, I have never before fully understood the capacity of the human body to experience pain. One might say, the wheels have fallen off.
Mile 12: A child hands me a grape popsicle. In all of creation, there is no more perfect food. I sob in gratitude and profusely express my undying love, gratitude, and affection. My picture now appears on seventeen pedophile watch list websites. Downhill I run, slurping away. Coordination! My previously white shirt is now stained green (Gatorade), purple (popsicle), and a sickly yellow (Goo.) I am one classy lady.
Mile 13: Due to the machinations of the sadistic race director, we finish by running uphill. On his behalf, I abhor all of humanity.
Mile 13.1: I do not pass out, vomit, feel my heart explode, or die. All goals have been reached and exceeded.
