Today, I was scheduled to run a half-marathon and didn’t make the start line. I sincerely hope they put me down as a DNS (did not start) instead of DFL (dead f*ing last). I also hope our federal government, with all their ridiculous new tracking tools, isn’t keeping track of where I am, what time I got home last night, the fact that I bailed on a run and totally blew out on red meat and vodka last night.
Surprisingly, I don’t feel too damn bad about not running. For starters, I slept right through the start of the race. (I knocked out 9 hours of sleep last night — freakin’ fabulous.) Second, I am learning, albeit slowly, that sometimes, you have to sacrifice a short term goal in hopes of killing a BIG one. (Which you’ll soon be hearing about!)
Instead of running, I hoofed it around my old stomping grounds and re-connected with my simpler self. (The part of me who deeply appreciates the honesty and ruggedness of a small town.)
For a long time, I was embarrassed to be from a town of 19,000 — especially one in Nebraska. Now, I’m damn thankful — b/c in my humble opinion, this great State cranks out some fantastic people. (I’m still NOT a Husker fan — and you get shot for that sh*t ’round here, but the truth IS the truth.)
It’s been all things hilarity since I rolled by the city limit sign. I’ve spent most of my time in restaurants– which means yesterday I reeked of fried food. Why is it that every time you go “home”, every last thing you do centers around southern fried chicken, monster omelettes, Mexican food fiestas and booze? (The pic up top is my friend Becky and I at the local Mexican place…it was all I could do NOT to snag a margarita in middle of the day.)
Last night, I had a date with my parent’s 85 year old neighbor, George. (Hubs knows so we’re good.)
Note: I love George. He’s wise. Hysterical. He tells a mean story. And he laughs his a** off every time I drop the f* bomb. (Crazy, but true.)
We went to the club for dinner, then hit up the Great American Comedy Festival.
Ten professional comedians from all over the U.S. competed in hopes of being crowned the KING of all things laughing.
One of the funniest bits was a guy who talked about death. He wondered, aloud, why most of us go out silently. His theory was — why not grab the shirt of the person in front of you, look ’em dead in the eye and say with complete authority, “Jesus freakin’ KNOWS what you did.” (I have to be honest. If I have half my wits about me on my death bed, I’m soooo doing this. Can you imagine? That one line could haunt someone for LIFE.)
So, right now I’m off to spend some “soul” time with my mom. (At least two more restaurants are on the agenda before my head hits the pillow…ack.) And tonight, it’s one last night of big, bad a** belly laughs. (Hey – I hope to meet Drew Carey and America’s Got Talent comedian Tom Cotter – woot!)
Today, I’m celebrating a DNS, sleeping in, and sliding out of this life sideways screeching, “Jesus freakin’ KNOWS what you did.”
P.S. My fingers hit the wrong button today, so the blog published early (before I was done.) ACK! Sorry about that.
P.S.S. Don’t forget to post your race day pics to the timeline this weekend — I love to see YOUR happy, smiling face after you cross the finish line! Also, have you ever bailed on a race you paid for? Come over and share! www.Facebook.com/BrooksFirstMarathon
P.P.S.S. I stood behind this guy getting on the plane Thursday. I had the line behind me in stitches as I’m trying to snap a photo of the quote. Talk about feeling like a stalker.