Best I can tell, I had two things to deal with this weekend: a 10-mile run and a date. Decompression is a bitch. And that bitch's name begins with "Mara" and ends with "thon."
You know what I needed more than anything? A good run. A morale boosting run. A prove-that-I'm-still-capable-of-running run. A run that says, "Lou, you're not going to collapse and die during the Marathon."
Ask and you shall receive. Yes. My knee hurt. No. It was not the easiest 10 miles I've ever run. But, thank goodness, it happened, it was solid, and despite the fact that I was forced to dig deep into my "hard runnin'" music (The Weight, Soul Meets Body, New Slang) to get me from mile 9 to mile 10, I had my stupid running lust perma-grin on my face just because it felt great to be out there. And, it felt incredible not to stop.
Let us all now share a collective sigh of relief. However, it occurred to me that to actually finish the marathon, I would have to do that 10-mile run two and a half times. But, we’re not going to think about that right now.
If I've said it once, I've said it so many times I should have it tattooed across my forehead: I hate dating. And I mean, hate with a capital HATE.
Um. Yeah. So anyway.
Marathon the Man (not the race) invited me to be his date to a wedding on Saturday, which was incredibly sweet, and – if you're one of my reader's who regularly gets off-blog commentary on my life – pretty much brought my summer full circle. But that, my friends, is a different story.
The details are sketchy and decidedly not PG-13. But here are some things I know to be true about me:
Number 1. Without fail, I will always drink more than I should if there is an open bar.
Number 2. When I get nervous, especially around a boy, I stop eating -- good for rapid weight lose; bad for drinking and clear-headed decision making, which brings us to…
Number 3. Not eating and an open bar are a bad combination.
Number 4. 7 times out of 10, if someone hands me a shot, I'll take it.
Number 5. I had a plan. I always have a plan. I used words like “failsafe” and “airtight” to describe my plan, which between the wine and how hot he looked in his tux, was quickly abandoned. This reminded me of something I once read:
Picking up women in a tuxedo is like fishing with dynamite. It's just not fair. It should be illegal. It's the sartorial equivalent of roofies.So, we learn lessons. We re-learn those lessons, and then we make the same mistakes. And, by "we," I pretty much mean, "I." Despite my best intentions, these types of decisions (the “will I or won’t I’s”) tend to be made on the fly, in a moment when I see no better option than to jump.
And, per usual, I jumped, and I wondered if I'd ever learn.