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.
Posts
