Brad and I went to pick up our pre-race package the day before. "This may be the only time you see me," I warned my friend Carrie as she handed me my bag of goodies. Sensing my trepidation, Carrie began listing all of the short-cuts on the race route while I rummaged through the bag, looking for alcohol. "Is this a lottery number?" I asked, holding up dramatically large-fonted digits on a flimsy piece of paper. Carrie sighed and handed me four safety pins. "What are these for?" I asked. "Good luck tomorrow," my friend said, waving me out the door.
Thanksgiving morn dawned much too early. "Is it raining?" I asked hopefully. Nope. "Snowing?" Nope. "Is there some aberration of nature that will prevent me from attending this event?" Nope. So...instead of being thankful, I spent the morning cursing.
"I didn't know there was a dress code," I whispered to Brad, feeling self-conscious in my jeans among the slew of sweatpants, leggings, and compression socks. I wished I'd worn a disguise as my athletic "friends" kept excitedly greeting me. "How am I gonna cheat if all these people, who I clearly have NOTHING in common with, see me?" I whispered to Brad who was trying to wrestle me into my lottery numbers. "No lottery is worth all this," I told him.
The race was on. I glanced back at my parked vehicle and considered sprinting to it but instead allowed myself to be swept into the river of racers. "This isn't so bad," I admitted as Brad and I easily walked the familiar route to the school...one that we'd walked countless times together as children. "You're speeding up?" my husband said, surprised as we suddenly made an unprecedented pass around a happy group of chatty-Cathys. "I need some advice," one of them had announced, "about hard-boiled eggs." When the advice about hard-boiled eggs exceeded a reasonable two minutes, I decided Brad and I needed a change of pace.
My spirits soared as we turned the corner leading to the finish. "This wasn't bad at all!" I said cheerfully as we enjoyed gravity's pull down Main Street. Brad was silent, allowing me to absorb my surroundings. "Why aren't they turning?" I asked, watching the flow of humanity stretch straight, PAST Maple Street, "Oh, no-no-no," I cried, my legs beginning to wobble. "I thought it would be better if you found out on your own," my husband said as my eyes scanned our surroundings, seeking escape. Maybe I could slip unobtrusively past the mom with an infant strapped to her chest pushing two toddlers in a double stroller. "Let's make a run for it while everyone is distracted by that group of hookers on the corner," I suggested before realizing that several of the daytime prostitutes were, in fact, mothers of my students and were enthusiastically cheering me on. I was not in the mood.
It was the final stretch. "What is that truck doing?" I asked as it lumbered along behind us. "They pick up the traffic cones at the end of a race," Brad explained. "Well...that's insulting," I huffed, "The least they could do is wait until we've crossed the finish line. This is like a waitress taking your plate before you've eaten the whole meal." They reminded me of the little sweeper guy who followed the parade on The Mister Peabody cartoon. "Do you think they'd give us a ride?" I asked Brad.
"Look! You finished in under an hour!" Brad pointed out as we crossed the finish line. "This took a whole hour?!?" I said indignantly. My husband gently guided me to the van. Strapped in and sipping water with the remnants of the race in my rear view, I began to calm down from my Turkey Trot trauma. "So...would you want to do it again?" he asked carefully. "Exercising is not my favorite way to spend Thanksgiving," I admitted, "but I guess it's not what you're doing...it's who you're doing it with." He grinned at this weak attempt to make the best out of this situation. "I yam so thank to be with you," I told him. "Stuffing better than this," he agreed. Happy Thanksgiving!
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