I have a bit of a reputation with my husband of being a pessimist. When we first started dating, he accused me of always expecting the worst. I told him that it wasn't pessimism per se but more a sense of "well, if things go as they usually do, this is probably going to be a disaster." It was realism, I said, because things always seemed to fall apart when I touched them.
My dear husband probably did some cavalier dance move and laughed and said, "You just have to think positively, and things will work out all right." I no doubt rolled my eyes and mumbled to myself whatever, you danged optimist. But I showed him sure enough. After a dozen years of living with me, he now admits that I might actually be cursed. (He still thinks I'm a pessimist, though. Go figure.)
It all started with a now famous camping trip. One day out of the blue I announced that we should go camping for the night. We had the day off, the weather was beautiful, we had a friend who would lend us a tent. All we needed were groceries that could be cooked on a wire hanger, and we were set. We pulled into the lovely Palo Duro Canyon state park, found the perfect campsite, pulled the tent out and started assembling it. Before we could even get the first stake in the ground, the sky opened up on us. It was a flash flood as only West Texas can provide. We were instantly soaked, we couldn't see, and the tent was blowing like crazy, so we just threw a log on the darn thing to keep it from blowing away and ran for the car. We slept in the car and ate cold hot dogs and marshmallows right out of the bag. Sam said, "I've never seen anything like this. I don't know that we could drive out of here if we wanted to."
I shrugged and said, "It figures, if I plan something you can pretty much expect it to end up like this."
At first he argued with me, but over the years he has come to admit that I am decidedly unlucky. I am not allowed to pick the checkout lane at the grocery store because any lane I pick is guaranteed to need to call a manager for something or other while we are waiting for our turn. When we were planning our wedding, I was expecting a catastrophe of epic proportions, but the only thing that really happened was that we forgot to actually get married that day. It was no big deal (I can say now in retrospect); we signed the paperwork the first thing the next morning.
I tend to injure myself in bizarre ways and break things in a manner that no one has ever seen them break before. I am kind of a bad luck magnet. Sam can't explain it, he just knows I shouldn't take up gambling or play outside in a rainstorm.
I bring all that up because I am running a half marathon tomorrow. Tomorrow, people. Ok, technically it will be today for you folks because I write these the night before. The point is that this is something completely out of character for me, something I never thought I would do, and something I am still not entirely sure I am going to be able to do. My training fell way behind, and I am much less prepared than I would like to be. Plus, I am about as novice a runner as they come. Translation: I am so flipping terrified of this silly race. I have had nightmares about it for days now. When I think about it, I get worse stage fright than I have ever had in front of any crowd. The last time I was this terrified about anything it was the night before Lincoln was born, and that was because someone was going to cut a baby out of me in the morning. How can this be as scary as having a baby carved out of your innards, y'all?
Up until Wednesday, my biggest fear was not being able to finish the race. And then, in the very early morning hours on Wednesday, Nico woke up projectile vomiting. On Wednesday at work, exhausted from being up all night and feeling the impending doom of the race approach, I had a revelation. I wasn't going to be able to run the dang race anyway. Because it would be just my luck to prepare for months, get up my nerves to do this monumental (for me) thing, and then wake in the middle of the night on Friday puking all over myself. That, I realized, would exactly fit the pattern of my unlucky life.
Wednesday went by, and I felt only the vague squeamishness associated with cleaning up after someone else's sickness. Thursday was better, but that only made it worse for me somehow. I just knew this violent stomach bug was going to catch me, and if it hit Friday night, I would be out of luck. And here I am on Friday afternoon feeling distinctly achy with a side of tummy grumble. It figures.
I know this feeling well. It's so easy to expect the worst when it seems like the worst keeps happening. It makes me want to close up the shutters and hunker down, hide out and let life life to unleash its fury, just keep my head low and not make any loud noises until the storm is over. But that is how I spent too many years of my life, and I am done with it. I need to prove to myself that I can do things that feel impossible because one day I will have to look my boys in the eye and tell them they can accomplish whatever they set their minds to. And when I do, it can't be a lie. If I expect the worst, if I decide I am going to be too sick to run this race, won't it just prove to them they should just cut and run when times get tough?
How else can I look into the eyes of a boy who will be told by society that he won't ever be anything and tell him to dream big anyway? How can I make Lincoln believe in himself if he watches me constantly doubt myself? I know I can't control whether or not I get sick, but I can't just decide I'm going to be sick and give up preemptively, either.
I went today and picked up my race packet. It was so exciting to see the card with name and racing number (I guess they call them bibs, though they don't look like bibs to me). I pulled out my souvenir t-shirt and just imagined wearing it as a reminder of accomplishing this huge feat. I know people do this all the time, but not me. Running has always felt impossible to me, and I honestly can't believe I am going to go 13.1 miles in the morning. Just getting my packet made it so real, and I walked back to my car with a tremendous sense of relief and, amazingly, elation. I decided then and there that no matter what, I was going to do this thing. I may collapse three miles in. I may have to barf every ten feet along the way, but I am going to show up and give it every ounce of strength I have. And if I am too sick to do well, if I walk the whole thing or collapse into a heap, I will end the day knowing I did an impossible thing. I gave every bit of strength I had and then I gave some more. And when I get to the finish line (no matter where it is for me tomorrow), I will be able to look into the faces of my three guys and accept their congratulations without any hint of regret.
So, wish me luck. I will post pictures later if I get any that don't make me look like I am suffering a hemorrhage. Just don't tell me to break a leg. Knowing my luck, my body would take it all too literally.
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