Bear with me because this is the first post I’ve ever lost through computer crash/blue screen of death. I know, I should have been saving it all along the way but I tend not to do that. And annoying things suck way worse when there’s no one to blame but yourself. And your crap laptop. It didn’t used to be crap. Four years ago it was way cool but somewhere along the way it because old and crap and a new one just isn’t fitting into the budget this year.
But I digress. Onto the reconstruction.
Today is the New York City marathon. I know this because the tourists this week have looked exceptionally fit and wiry. I never actually go to the marathon, although I have twice in the past, once because someone I knew was running, and once because I had something that took me close to it. Each time, though, my reaction was the same. “Wow! That is really hard! Who the fuck would do this voluntarily?”
Now I don’t just say this because exercising makes me want to rip my head off and I define exercise in a way that’s far less taxing than a marathon. The two times I went to the marathon I was in the Columbus Circle area, which is the closest it gets to me and is the end of the race. By the time the runners get here, they look like they have been dead for the last ten miles or perhaps like it would be an incredibly merciful thing if you killed them. “Do it!” their bodies shout, “kill me now, for the love of Crikey.”
Yes, yes, it’s so rewarding, they’re so glad they did it, it was the finest moment of their lives. I know, because people who have done it have told me. But I still don’t really get how training forever to push yourself to the point of near death is something to aspire to. If you are a runner, sure, it’s the pinnacle of what you can reach. But I mean the others, the average Joes and Janes and Diddies, who feel like just moving their legs until those legs feel like they want to be amputated is the high point of their year. The best ones are the ones who say, “you should do it too!” Oh ahahahahahaha. I think not. It’s not that I believe I can’t do it, because I know I can’t do it. It’s just that I don’t get it, I really don’t.
My idea of a fantastic Sunday involves moving as little as possible with stops at the front door to get the Sunday Times (where I skip the part about the marathon – boring!) and at the coffeemaker. And usually, by the time I get to those places with the final terminus at the sofa, all the Kenyans would have already hit the tape on Marathon Sunday. Did I mention? I’m writing this at 3pm. In my pajamas.
And if I really want to have that feeling of “Wow! I can’t believe a human can do that!” well, people, that’s what the circus is for! Sure, you can’t hand cups of water to the tightrope-walkers and say, “Way to go…..Sally!” But, on the other hand, you also can’t yell, “Are you INSANE? This is what you wasted your year on?” OK, I only shouted that in my mind, but it was loud, I promise you.
Now if they gave out free laptops at the finish line, maybe I’d change my mind.
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Pink Floyd – Run Like Hell
