I Didn’t Want to Win the Lottery

I have a running partner that is ten years younger and ten times more motivated than I am.  She makes me do things I don’t want to do.  Like running a 5K on thanksgiving morning, running at 6 a.m., or running at all for that matter.

But running is good for me. It’s good for my body and my attitude so I press on.  Begrudgingly.  I even bought a treadmill.  I love the idea of having a treadmill.  I love how the treadmill looks in my basement next to the exercise ball I never use.  I love my new running pants.   I love talking about “hitting the treadmill”.  I just don’t love running on it.  I would rather stay in bed or watch T.V.  while eating a gallon of ice cream.  With hot fudge.  And M & M’s.

This year she suggested we sign up for a half marathon.  In case you don’t know that’s 13 miles.  By foot.  Which is totally crazy.  This half marathon is so popular you enter a lottery.  Yes, you must hope for a chance to torture yourself and pay an entry fee. 

I entered and hoped I wouldn’t get chosen.  My husband rolled his eyes.  Why would I enter a lottery I hoped not to win?  Because if I wussed out and didn’t even enter I’d be a quitter.  But if I entered and by some act of a merciful God didn’t get chosen?  That’s the best of both worlds.

Plus, they don’t charge your credit card until you get chosen.  So when I didn’t win, I was going to take that money and buy a fabulous pair of boots.  Really fabulous.  And maybe a pair of black skinny jeans exercise pants.

 

(Google images)

I jest, I jest.  I’m far too practical for that.  But this?  Oh yeah.

 

(Google images)

I got a fateful text last night.  And checked my emails to confirm my fears.  I won the lottery.  Rats.

Good-bye boots.  Good-bye ice cream. 

Hello treadmill.  Hello torture.

If you’re looking for me I’ll probably be hanging in the medical tent.  Deliriously crying about my boots and the stinking lottery that I had the misfortune of winning.