Idiot. Masochist. Both.

My current state:

I know, I'm an idiot.  Or a masochist.  Or both. 

So, here's my Houston Marathon recap (written while watching Intervention and drinking wine).  Oh my God, I'm so glad I'm not addicted to drugs, and instead, only the pain that comes with running 26.2. 

Bart and I headed to Houston Friday afternoon.  Per usual, we left a good hour and a half after our EDT.    Bart was sweating, nearing full-on Alexander melt down stage; meanwhile, my blood pressure was eye-level.   After a truce was called (and spousal murder avoided), we happily set sail.  

Due to our late departure, instead of meeting our Houston friends at their homes, we went directly to the Spaghetti Western.  

WHAT?!  

Apparently you can't take 7 children to sushi.  Who knew?  

7 and 1/2 kids (one currently cooking), 4 couples, 2 hours, and one training potty in a suburban at the Spaghetti Western later=a double dose of birth control, me ordering my husband not to touch me for at least a year, and simultaneously googling wine.com and doctors that tie tubes.  

Whew!  I'm exhausted just writing about it.

The next day, we visited with Brad and Jennifer, and Bart got his hair and make-up done by Elle.  Elle is 3.   How you say, "bee-u-ti-ful, no"?  [Pictures to follow].

We carbo loaded (fancy talk, for eating the shit you normally feel guilty for eating) and turned in early.

Much to my surprise, Bart decided to run the 5-k, instead of hunting geese.  Something about rain and water, [insert Charlie Brown's teacher here], and geese not liking something, [and here].  It must be similar to what he hears when I speak Missoni, Louboutin, and D&G.   Huh.

We woke up bright and early (read, I yelled at Bart for having the nerve to tell me good morning), and set out for the marathon (and 5-k).

Immediately upon pulling up to the Houston Convention Center, I had to go.  Number 2.  IMMEDIATELY!!!  

Crisis averted, Bart walked me to my starting position.  Holy Shit.  I had to go.  Number 2.  Again.  IMMEDIATELY!! 

Apparently, that's what happens, when you eat 2 pounds of pasta and combine it with nerves.  Who knew?  Actually, I did.  I've been in that boat before.  Three times.  One of which involved a chimichanga, a bowl of queso, and 26.2 miles.  Nuff said.

Due to my dual assplosions, I didn't start my race in my designated time corral.   However, at 7:10, I was off!  I felt good.  At mile 9, it dawned on me that I had run three 5-k's.  At mile 13, I was ecstatic that I was half-way through.  At mile 16, I was pumped that I only had 10 miles to go.   And, at mile 21, I didn't just hit the wall--I effing did a full-force U around the top and the bottom of that fucker.  

I have never had calf cramps.  I've always been of the opinion that those NFL guys were faking it when they clutched their calf muscles, and begged to be carried off the field.  Sweet Jesus, forgive me, for I was so wrong.

I had dual calf cramps.  And 5 looooooooooonnnnnnnnnng miles to go.   I stopped and stretched.  Bad. Idea.  I broke my number one marathon rule--don't stop.  Ever.  It hurts WAY worse when you stop.

At that point, I officially bent over and took it from the marathon gods.  

I continued another mile of my run/walk/hobble, when, what's that I spied, an oasis?  Yes!  The beer garden.  I promise you, that's the longest, and hardest that I've thought about anything in a long time (sorry, oil and gas clients).  I could surrender to those marathon gods, and enjoy a cold, delicious brewskee (or two), and call my sweet husband to come get me.  

With tears in my eyes, and self-loathing in my heart, I kept on.  Cussing the whole way.  Telling myself that I will NEVER.  EVER.  DO.  THIS.  AGAIN.  

I crossed the finish line at 3 hours and 44 minutes--four minutes from qualifying for Boston.

Our friend, Brad, qualified for Boston, with an impressive time of 3 hours 4 minutes!  

His wife, Jennifer, ran her first half marathon!

Bart came in 46th in his age group for the 5-k!

And I'm seriously considering running another one in February.  Idiot.  Masochist.  Both.