We ran 20 miles today. Man does it feel good to type that. At about mile 15 I was desperately trying to distract myself from the painful task at hand by day dreaming about how today's blog entry might go. It sounded something like this:
I HATE RUNNING. Running a marathon is the most idiotic idea I've ever had, and I've had some doozies. Why am I still running?! Each step is most certainly carrying me closer to my ever imminent impending doom. I will most certainly have a physical and emotion breakdown if I continue this insanity. When was this ever fun? If I stop now Jeremy can run to the car while I sit under this shaded tree, elevating my blistered, swollen feet and reassuring myself that 18 miles is far enough. I mean, do I really need to go the extra 8.2?! What do I have to prove? That's farther than most people have run in there life. I am an accomplished runner. So what if we payed $125 each to run this race...wait, I payed $125 to torture myself?! I have officially lost my freaking mind. Look at Jeremy, he doesn't even look tired. And if he tells me I am "doing a good job" one more time I swear I'm going to quit. That will show him to be supportive and encouraging.
What actually was coming out of my mouth was a vomitous spew of vile words that would have sent my grandmother into hours of prayer. If I hadn't been so consumed by own self pity I might have noticed parents covering their small children's ears while giving me ojo.
Why Jeremy did not run far ahead of me and act like he has no link to the sad, pathetic, barely running crazy lady who appears to only know curse words, is beyond me. This, folks, is one of the reasons I know I have great guy. He kept going with his blasted positive quips of encouragement.
Mile 17.5 I verbalized (while still running I would like to note) that I was "broken" and "walking once we got to the bridge." Broken, yes, I said I was broken! I'll admit I have a flair for dramatics when the mood strikes me, but "broken"?! - come on, Tamara. In retrospect I'm shocked that he didn't just bust out in laughter. Maybe he was scared his insanely tired, explicative spewing wife would turn her current hatred for running on him. (Good call on that, sweetheart) Instead he tells me the one thing that probably kept me running. "Your lucky I'm not Jillian Michaels. Do you really want to quit now? We are so close. What would Jillian Michaels do."
He WWJMDed me...and it worked!! Not that I stopped my bitching. But I did continue to run, albeit very slowly. I started to think about watching the footage of Jillian Michaels screaming at me while I sobbed about how "I..I...I...caaahhhhnnnn't" with a camera in my pathetic, tear and sweat streaming red face. I decided right then that me and my potty mouth would finish this run.
The potty mouth dropped out at about mile 18.5. I, however, didn't quit. I didn't quit for lots of reasons. Mainly because I have a wonderful husband who pushes me when I need to be pushed, and does it with love. We finished strong, and by strong I mean I was back at my regular pace.
After a shower, some coffee, and warm, snugly spot on the couch I can confidently announce that I LOVE RUNNING. I love running because it strengthens my relationship with my husband and my running buddies. I love running because it makes me proud of myself. I love running because I can do it. I LOVE RUNNING!