By now you know this blog is a form of therapy for me.
Yes, you repeatedly lend me your ears.
I gladly fill them each time.
You wear your therapist hat.
I pull you into my weather pattern and expect you to shelter me there.
So here I am again, perched on your sofa.
But this time I wholeheartedly invite you to toe a line of neutrality as you arbitrate this recent grievance:
I don’t really have any “hobbies.”
I don’t spend much money on extracurricular activities.
I mostly like people, but mostly like being at my house, with myself, more.
My spouse, who shall remain nameless, often feels differently.
My spouse enjoys activities.
My spouse is disciplined and motivated in the way of physical exertion.
My spouse has the life zeal of a teenager.
My spouse prefers I be likewise.
My spouse has some curious fantasy that I be involved in organized sports for social and fitness reasons.
He even threatens to enroll me in a basketball league to facilitate this dream of his.
Then you can imagine his excitement when he learned I would “participate” in the Tulsa Run.
Now I detest humble braggers, so I won’t tell you it was a tough 9+ miles.
My spouse had pumped me up with fiery talks in weeks leading up to the race.
A non-negotiable for him was how I finish the race.
No matter how slow I run, or even if I walk the entire race, I must sprint to the finish line.
Together, my spouse’s sister and mom and I interval walked/ran the race.
As we approached the last two miles, they encouraged me to run ahead, knowing how much a respectable finish meant to my spouse.
Giddily, I snailed off.
I grinned as I pictured my proud spouse.
As I miserably crawled over the last couple of hills and rounded the corner, I see the American flag ahead and hear crowds roaring, music blaring.
This my jam.
This my time.
This one’s for you, honey.
Shoulders back. Chest out. Look alive.
Everything this gal’s got.
As I arrived at the American flag, I quickly realized it wasn’t the finish line.
Oh my stars.
I was seeing stars—but in too deep to slow down.
My honey’s words echoed in my head, mandating I sprint to the finish.
His beaming face was the only thing that kept this foot on the gas.
(Along with another competitor on my left trying to overtake me.
Not on my watch, sister.)
I finally reached the finish.
Sucking in all the air I could find.
But mostly awaiting my honey’s familiar grip on my shoulders and his profuse praises.
And I kept waiting.
And my eyes swept the crowds.
And swept some more.
All the sympathy.
All of it.
Keep it coming.
Now, I told you I would relay an unbiased account of this baggage I’m ferrying around.
So in my spouse’s defense, he believes it’s not his fault I finished the race quicker than he thought possible in light of my abilities and present physical state.
I feel like that’s another hurtful statement.
It was my one shining moment.
And I spent my moment alone.
So my spouse has now also spent a few moments alone, sleeping on the couch.