So This morning I went to the Women In Training workout as a volunteer. These are all women, training for their very first 5k. I loved every minute of it, and tried not to be too creepy as I happily eavesdropped on their conversations with each other about why they started running.
- so I told him, I'm not dying first, were going to the nursing home together.
- I just want to set a good example for my kids, you know?
- I just wanted to see if I could.
Then I led a group on a one-minute on, one-minute off run/walk for forty minutes. I have an orange wicking shirt now that says Volunteer on it. I feel privileged. I feel old and wise and shit.
okay! Were going up a Little bit of a hill here! Remember: little steps, little steps!
|It's not a SkirtSports design yet...|
My daughter said, geez, mom. You keep going on and on about the bacon, and I spouted off about how during a long run I often do not not want to eat anything, and it is often the case that extreme measures are needed to get me to eat.
Such as, for instance, Nutella.
This was all completely true, of course. But completely irrelevant.
There are things I simply do not keep at home. It's like caviar. You don't keep caviar around the house. But if someone offered some to you, you'd take a hit because, well, after all, its caviar.
I also don't keep liquor around the house, for various unfair reasons relating to my genetic loading. But if someone at a party offered me some amaretto, dude, I'm all over it. So it's kinda like that, except that it's bacon. Or Nutella. or in the case of a certain local 4 mile run that occurs in March every year, Bailey's Irish Cream in tiny paper shot glasses at mile 2.
|Gatorade, schmatorade. Hic.||Give me a shot.|