I’m a runner. I’m one of those people you see running around town in tiny running shorts and cool running shoes that cost approximately as much as a 1989 Toyota but are totally worth it because I don’t want other runners to point and laugh.
Yep. I’m a runner.
I have been running since…golly, let’s see now. I love running so much it feels like it was just yesterday that I decided I’d really like to run around something for no good reason and headed out to the track to get in condition.
Maybe that’s because it was just yesterday. Yesterday at 2PM to be more specific.
Because my crazy tall thirteen-year-old son is an official track star I guess I thought it must run in the family. (Sweet pun intended.) I should have paid more attention in school during whatever class it was that explained kids do not pass things onto their parents.
It was probably the one during which Tommy Carswell and Kaye Lovelace sat in my immediate learning area distracting me from whatever it was the teacher was saying at the front of the classroom. I recall something about dead frogs and blood cells, but given her crooked nose and pointy teeth, I figured it was one of her recipes.
“Let’s run together,” I said to my boy. “It’ll be loads of quality mother-son time!”
Of course it’s common knowledge that what every thirteen year old boy wants more than anything is to have the sport he excels in and thoroughly enjoys suddenly “shared” with his Mom. I’m sure his dreams of the NFL are now sullied from the fear I will suit up and run onto the field to wipe off his face with a spit-soaked Kleenex.
Between you and me, my plan was to show up at the track, walk around a few times and tell him I had woman cramps or something. I figured he’d be relieved I needed to go home and I’d still get the God credits for being an involved Mother.
My giant offspring had different ideas.
“Ok Mom,” he said looking down at me and putting one hand on my shoulder, “you can do this. You are going to run around this track twice before we leave today and I’m going to be beside you every step of the way.”
I realized it was going to take more than ovarian pain to get me out of this. I wondered how a person fakes a compound fracture without actually fracturing something. Just as I was about to grab my knee and scream out that one of my most important leg bones had spontaneously broken right through my skin, the boy yelled, “Go Mom!”
So I went.
I was running! And there wasn’t even anything chasing me.
Within 30 seconds however, I was like the big, bad wolf in the fairy tale (who coincidentally I married later in life), huffing and puffing as if I’d smoked a carton of Lucky Strikes on the car ride over.
You know I couldn’t quit though because just as he’d promised, the tallest thirteen-year-old male in America was running right beside me. Well, I guess it was more walking than running really. Actually it was more walking backwards, to be perfectly honest.
I said I was running. I never said I was running fast.
“You can do it, Mom! I believe in you! You’re running, Momma! I’m so proud of you!”
His positive affirmations were so precious and encouraging, but the level of exhaustion I was suffering made me want to punch him in the nose. The only thing that kept me from laying him out was the fact that I haven’t been able to reach his nose in six months and I was also pretty sure I no longer had the use of my arms anyway.
Long story short, I ran a 400, walked a 400, ran another 400 and then walked two more 400’s. Although I suffer from math impairment due to my Mother’s addiction to Juicy Fruit when pregnant with me, even I can see that’s a lot of 400’s.
He wants us to go back tomorrow after lunch and do it all over again. As I adore my son in a big way, I will happily comply.
So long as one of my super important leg bones does not spontaneously pop right through my skin before we get there, that is.
Is it bad that I want to adopt this guy for all the wrong reasons? I'd put him in a cage and make him sing this song to me in order to get his cup full of Young Guy Chow.
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