I am writing this from an airplane, on my way to NYC for work. I used to love traveling for work, the siren call of a strange city, exotic sights and expense account dinners. All of that changed when I had Jones. Kyle was a bit older, if by a bit you mean 15 years, and once children become teenagers it’s not only easier to leave them for days at a time, it’s sometimes preferable.
Jones is only 16 months old, and is still at the age where my ovaries ache when I leave him at daycare for the day. He is the reason that scheduling my runs can be a pain in the ass. During the week, I won’t go till he’s in bed. Which is all well and good, but then I’m eating up valuable time to spend with Casey and Kyle. It’s a struggle sometimes to get the miles in, but I also feel that it’s important because I am setting a good example for both of my kids, and staying in shape which makes me feel good, ergo making Casey feel good.
I had to do a five miler yesterday as part of my training, and it left me sore and battered. We live in an area where it is impossible to find a flat run for any distance. When I dragged myself up the steps and cried about this to Casey, his response was, “Really? You can’t find a flat run in MOUNT Lebanon, a suburb of the South HILLS?” He is a real card, that one.
(Sidenote: I’m struggling to keep my coffee tucked between my thighs and type this. Why don’t airplanes have cup holders? And I’m not talking about those dents in the tray. I am talking CUP HOLDERS. Can someone get on that?)
Even this morning my knees were letting me know that they were not happy with me. I felt like I was moving in slow motion, partly because I was sore, partly to delay saying good bye. I get to the airport, schlep my way to security, and this lovely older gentleman TSA agent waves me over to the First Class line (always shorter than the normal poor people line).
Old man: “Are you traveling first class, miss?”
Me: “Ha. No.”
Old man:”You sure LOOK like you are first class all the way,” *eyebrow wiggle* “Come through this line.”
I’m thinking hot damn. I wanted to text Casey, Hey, you should probably not let me travel alone. I was feeling good. Old men are great for throwing a compliment, as long as they aren’t creepy about it. I move through into security, and there is a younger TSA agent making general conversation with folks. He gets to me.
He asks me where I’m going, business or pleasure, and the whole time he looking at my chest. I was like, what the hell buddy, my face is up here! PERV! He tells me to have a nice day, wanders off to the next guest, and I look down to see how much cleavage he just ate with his eyes. AAANNNNNDDD it was a tag. I had a tank top on under my sweater, and not only did I have it on inside out, I also had it on backwards. So what he was staring at was not my breasticle region, but rather a giant Limited tag, announcing I am a size medium and can’t dress myself.
I boarded the train for the terminal a much more humble woman.
Now here I am hurling towards the Big Apple, and I’m thinking about challenge number two for running; Travel. It is so hard to be good when you travel, at least if you’re me. The entire reason I do so well in a training program is I am accountable to other people. Take that away, and it’s just me and an alarm clock. It’s really hard to get excited about getting up early to haul your ass to a hotel treadmill and sweat it out next to strangers when NO ONE will ever know if didn’t.
That’s why I need all of you to ask me Wednesday, “Bethany how was your run?” I need you to do that because then I’m accountable to you. And I can’t lie for shit, so I will tell you the truth. Hell, I will take a time stamped picture and post it. Can you do that for me? I will totally owe you one.
Today is a rest day for me. It’s the perfect day to meet one of best friends for dinner in some posh Manhattan eatery and drink Many Glasses of Delicious Wine. But not too many. I have a date with a treadmill tomorrow morning. GOD! You guys are so PUSHY!!
Yours in sore knees,