I saw it for myself when I went to my first concert in (cough ahem) years, to see this fellow:
(my crush, Richard Thompson, who if you don't know him, you totally should )
He rocked the 9:30 Club in D.C. My ears are still ringing, but in a good way. And there were actually people there, proving that I am not a remnant of a very rare and faraway breed.
That's the latest I've stayed up in a long long time, and Number One Daughter was shocked. Shocked I tell you. She is now encouraged that I might actually have a life.
Which life will no doubt end when I start the 10-Mile Training Program with DCRR on July 14, which I've been asked to help coordinate. (It takes some people several times before the depths of my incompetency become fully apparent. In other words some people never learn.)
But for a few hours there, I was a groovy hot mama, bopping along to protest songs and love ballads, and screaming like I was at a Beatles' concert. In 1964.
And then, I woke up.
And went on a 4-mile run Sunday night. (OK, I did some stuff between the concert and the run. Poetic license, people.) This week I waited 'til it was practically dark to avoid the heat and humidity. I had a lovely offer to run with someone on Sunday morning, but (cue Chariots of Fire) I have this little commitment every Sunday morning, which tends to last a long time since I volunteer for this and that, so had to turn the offer down. Which kind of sucks because had someone run with me, this run would have gone
... down like a warm butter pad on toast. I swear. We'll talk, and run, and before you know it the Giant will be in our sights again and we'll be done. I swear. Maybe 55 minutes.I ask you: what kind of MORON turns down an offer like that?!?! The man said it would be like buttah!
Instead, I went out for my long run on Sunday night with the humidity hovering around 120 percent. (I don't care if that is scientifically impossible. You live in D.C. and tell me all about it.)
And this happened:
mile 1: 11:14
mile 2: 11:13
mile 3: 11:42
mile 4: 11:41
It's discouraging. That's all I'll say.
No, wait, I'll say more.
This is the start of week five of my "Return to Running" (soon to be a major motion picture) and I'm supposed to be throwing down 9:30 minute miles by now. What the hell happened?
Someone keeps assuring me that "less is more" and that I'm "building a base," and "quality over quantity," and that I am doing "great," etc. Thank God for this encouragement, because I'm getting fed up.
I have my first 5k on July 4 (well, my first since the "Return to Running"). It's not gonna be pretty, but I'm going to run that thing if I have to have someone drag me across the finish line.
But let's all take a deep breath and remember that whatever I lack in talent and ability, I make up for in stubbornness. (Or stupidity. Take your pick. They both start with the same letters.) So I'm going to get there, as God is my witness, if it TAKES ME THE REST OF MY FREAKIN' LIFE.