February 18, 2011
Jared, who happens to be the most supportive husband on the planet, read my Boston post yesterday. And last night, while he was folding laundry in our bedroom, he let me know that he thought it was total and complete crap.
"You still care," he said.
"No I don't," I insisted, "I'm over it."
"How long ago did you decide that you want to run the Boston Marathon?"
"In 1995 when I first read an article about it in Runners' World," I replied. "But I swear I'm over it."
"No you're not. You're discouraged that it just got harder. You're not over it, that's not you."
And so on and so forth.
He says he knows me better than I know myself.
I say he farts every time I walk into the bedroom and it's starting to piss me off.
He says he knows that I'll never give up on my dream.
I say I know he'll never get a manner.
Truth is, I don't know what in the hell I'm feeling. I guess you can say that I'm simultaneously discouraged and encouraged--and that's what makes us human, being able to feel two opposite things at the very same time, right? I mean, buffalo can't do that, can they?
So there. Whatever. I'm conflicted. About something that's not so big in the grand scheme of things, but on my mind a lot of the time.
Maybe I still care. Maybe I really don't care so much anymore.
Maybe I should drink some melted butter. I've always wanted to do that.