This past weekend was the NYC Marathon. Every year on Marathon Sunday I get suuuuper caught up in the spirit. I become overwhelmed with enthusiasm and pride and inflated ideas of my own athletic ability and get this unstoppable desire to “achieve” something.
“This is it,” I think. “This is my year.” Marathon Year. The Year of Achievement. TYOA.
I start fantasizing about myself running, and my body is awesome – like, you know those chicks who run and they just wear like, small spandex pants and a sports bra and nothing is jiggling around and they know how to move their arms and legs in a normal runner’s motion instead of wildly flailing them about – I look like that, and all of my friends and family are watching me from the sidelines, cheering, waving huge signs with my name on them, and my boyfriend, Paul Rudd, is waiting at the finish line with our golden retriever, Donna, and then someone pays off my credit card bill. That’s how marathons work, yes? Yes.
Then, exhausted from all that daydreaming and clapping, still high on thoughts of TYOA, I head home and polish off a full bottle of pinot grig, and think: “That counts as “achievement” right? Right! You’ve done it again, old girl!” And then I slow clap, for myself. And then I take a nap. And never run. And repeat 4x and counting, probably every year of my life from now until I die.
The end. See you at the finish line, Paul Rudd! I love you!