So, apparently, one worrisome side effect of reaching the half-century mark is that one starts to think in cliches.
|I wasn't smiling like this. Also? I wore a shirt.|
"Okay," I said. "But NO RUNNING." Because I'm sort of allergic to that. Also, I hate the way my butt bounces up and down when I try to run. I need a bra for my butt.
What she and I didn't count on, however, was the effect of peer pressure on my susceptible self. Hey, I thought as we trudged along the race course, the runners are getting done faster. This walking sure does seem inefficient. And I hear there's food at the end.
"Let's jog until I'm tired," I told my friend, who does marathons, for heaven's sake, and was probably sick of walking anyway. So we did that. Back to walking, I noticed people fatter than me getting ahead of us. Oh, no. Can't deal with that. No way I'm less fit than that chick up there. "Let's jog again," I said. And so it went. At one point, my primary motivation was to pass the 6-year-old in front of us, because there is only so much humiliation I can stomach at my age.
The upshot was that we finished in only 40 minutes. I know! I'm practically...um...whatever the running equivalent of Tiger Woods is. We trotted past the Designated Hugger at the finish line (I told you - it's a girly-girl race) and then we ate bananas and drank water and waited to hear if we had won any door prizes (we didn't). So we called it a day and headed to the parking lot, resplendent in our pink race T-shirts and our pink finisher baseball caps.
"Next year?" I told my stunned friend as we parted ways, "I'm running that entire course."
Yeah, that music is sort of what I felt like. Also? Hot. As in sweltering, not sexy...