Explanation part II

I guess I should explain where and when I changed my mind about marathons. You’re reading this; you’re taking time out of your perfectly good day to follow along; you could be drinking wine, knitting, and watching Tom Brady instead; you deserve to know. It isn’t really that good of a story though, so don’t be dismayed if you aren’t inspired by the following information. I worked at a sports academy at which most of the faculty and staff were pretty outdoorsy and athletic, if not at least attempting to be, and someone’s sister-in-law or something-someone-twice-removed registered for the marathon in Burlington, Vermont (for which one, mercifully, does not have to qualify by time), and suggested her relative tag along. Can one really “tag along” on a marathon? I’ll have to ask. So, she convinced my roommate and another co-worker to sign up, and I, being the Most Competitive Girl in the World that I am, chortled at the thought of them pounding out the pavement for 26.2 miles, and immediately sent in my registration forms as well, pushing them out of the way and stealing their stamps in the process. Just for the record, these ladies are, and were, perfectly capable of running long distances, reaching goals, sticking to plans, and doing so with a smile on, and I hold nothing against any of them (I actually adore them), but of course I knew I could do it better. You will soon learn that I can do just about everything better than most people. This is what we call “obvious”.

That reminds me of a hilarious Scrubs episode (is there one that isn’t hilarious?) in which JD is, as usual, annoying Turk talking about how he is so good at this and the best at that and the other and so on. Turk finally asks him to just shut up for two seconds already, his little chuck-stache twitching. So, JD does shut up, but in his head he is counting down, “one…two…three…and now I’m the best at that also”, in his smart inner-monologue that the writers, and fans, of that show so love, and giving himself a knowing nod that confirms he is, indeed, the best at that also. My good friend JK and I went on vacation together last summer and spent out entire trip commenting on how much better we were than everyone—yes, at everything—and honestly, it’s true. Well, it is our own fault we traveled by cruise ship—have you seen people on cruise ships? You are better than they are, and I don’t even know you. I had a ball, let me tell you, but I kid you not, the very second night we ended up stranded at a dinner table with some lady with fake nails and hilarious hair and an ah-mazing New Joisey accent talking about her miraculous marriage to the man she met online while totally embarrassing her daughter, who she pointed out to be adopted (isn’t that, like, the cardinal sin of adoptive parents?), who was all of twelve and had eye-lined her beautiful almond Asian eyes to New Joisey hell. You may also come to learn that these are the kind of people I do not mesh well with. But it makes a good story, no?

I guess the point (that I was trying to make a few paragraphs ago) is, if even a whiff of competition comes up, which it didn’t even on this particular occasion because no one “challenged” me to a marathon, so I guess if even a non-whiff comes up, I attack. I’m like a frog, squatting still on a lily pad, only eyes moving, following the trail of the next kill, dying to unleash the length of pink muscle that will capture my next meal but knowing I have to remain all-green and undetected for the one perfect opportunity that might not come again if I screw this up. Seriously, I’m like that. It’s like an itch on the inside, which clearly can’t be scratched, bubbling up my throat, dying to get out. If I feel the tug of competition, even if self-inflicted, I have to tap my feet or grind my jaw around to let out that energy building up and keep myself from offending anyone with a sarcastic challenge. I start sizing up people, my eyes flickering up and down their bodies like a pervy old man along the gym wall at cheerleading tryouts. If the competition isn’t offered, I might just crack and say juvenile things like, “wanna bet?” or “best of three?”. Then it gets serious.

At this point it is safe to tell you (and if you don’t already know you’re a dumbass): I hate not being the best at something. Well, I’ve gotten better at letting some things slide, like maybe someone else can vacuum once in a while, but I do such a better job it really isn’t worth it and I have to go around a second time afterwards anyway, lifting up chairs and going behind doors and other places normal people never vacuum for some weird reason. Lazy. If you ever need a prototypical Type A “Let-me-do-it-because-you’ll-just-do-a-bad-job-anyway” specimen, just give me a holler. I will be the best specimen you need, naturally, so why look elsewhere?

As I've said, I’ve become more apt to let others do their share of the work and I think my competitive side has chilled marginally since my college athletics/drinking games days. I play a mean Chandeliers, let me tell you. So I didn’t necessarily need to win the entire marathon, I just had to be the best one out of the people I knew running it. I don’t really know the best at what, considering I didn’t really care how long it took me to run the race nor was I all pumped up on the training process. I do know “being the best” definitely included—and eventually ended up being solely about—talking about the marathon the least, because I can’t stand people who choose to do things, on purpose, and then pretend they are some huge, inconvenient struggles they simply have to deal with (and talk about constantly, “sharing” aka “whining” about how horrible it all is meanwhile dropping hints about how amazing they are for running 10 miles at lunch time, etc., etc.). I actually stalked out of the cafeteria one time because someone, again, was talking about the misery of training. It remains unclear if she was looking for awed sympathy or actually just bitching, but I really couldn’t stand it. And obviously I am the best at not complaining, so I could be holier-than-she and hold my head high while violently returning my warped brown tray to the water-logged dishwashing window and stomping out to make a point. Also, I’m clearly very mature.

On that note, I think my reasons for running a second marathon are rather mature. I am raising money for charity. I wanted to run the Boston Marathon because it is such a big deal around here and basically the most popular (well, New York’s pretty big too) marathon in the country; I know I’m not living nearby forever, and I can bet you I’m not capable of running that distance for much longer, so, carpe diem, hey? Helping out a local charity can’t be a bad thing. So pat me on the back, I’m a good person.