So, remember that 5k I was gearing up for? The one I almost killed myself in a horrible sports-bra related incident? Well, I ran every last bit of that 3.1 miles and loved it.
Until I crossed the finish line, that is.
As my running partner and I neared the end, I found Ed on the sideline and excitedly waved. Picked up my pace a little with some Tom Cruise arms and looked straight ahead at the clock: 45 minutes had gone by. I ran through the finish and immediately made a beeline for Ed, holding back tears.
“I can’t believe my time,” I choked out. “Why did I even bother practicing? My time has gotten worse!” I was bordering on hissy fit territory here.
“Sweetie…they started that clock for the first race. The 10k? It started before yours, right? It didn’t take you that long. Go check your time.”
*A few minutes later*
“Yeah, so I finished a minute ahead of my goal and five minutes ahead of last time. Ha! Sorry about that.”
To summarize: I am amazing, but also kind of a dipshit.