This afternoon me and my husband ran the Fort Worth Mud Run.
Ok we ran some of it and we walked ……..and we crawled and climbed and waded the 6.2 miles in our boots and long pants.
It was hard.
There were 15 or so obstacles along the course like over-unders, walls to climb, pits to slither through and nets to go under and lots of running.
There were mini Marines ( like 8 year olds) yelling at you to keep running. To jump in or they’d push you. That their grandmother would get a better time than I would.
Occasionally we would stop to catch our breath or to pour mud out of our boots. I needed my husband behind me to give me a good shove over a wall or out of a pit. And I skipped the top plank of the dreaded “Stairway to Heaven”…which is not at all a stairway and more of a giant really tall ladder. (did I mention I am afraid of heights). But mostly we ran, even with our boots full of mud, and We Finished.
Slowly but surely and together.
Wet and dirty and aching.
Today there are blisters and cramps.
Tomorrow there will be unspeakable aches.
Occasionally on the course I wondered why I was doing this.
Why I kept pushing my self to run. Why I was so determined to make it up the nets or over the wall despite my lack of any upper body strength whatsoever.
But mostly I thought it was fun.
I’m not really that fit or a gym rat or an overall fan of pain. But there is something about crossing a finish line. Pushing yourself beyond your limits. Doing something hard and succeeding. Sloshing through the mud and making it to the other side.
I do the math on my hand. This is my 5th end of the year dance recital and you think by now I’d know to remember to pack hair spray and snacks. Someone hands my daughter a bag of chips and I want to hug her. I want to tell her that I am not a total failure, that we did not lose the wristbands, we wore the right color tights and that I do at least have a few bobby pins in my pocket. I can not handle the crazy that is backstage. It is a whirlwind of squealing girls in sequins, lycra and tulle. Moms wielding curling hours and more eye makeup than the entire MAC counter, I start to sweat in my ponytail. I quickly look away as an entire row of dancers peel off EVERYTHING for a quick costume change. I was not made for this. I unashamedly let an eight-year-old I have never met teach me how to get my daughter’s hair in place and I make the fastest exit I can. We sit in the balcony. Where we have been for hours. Dance recital day is all consuming. Rehersal, hair and finding the right ti...

Comments
You wouldn't catch me exerting myself that much :-}
Stopping to say Hello from the Ultimate Blog Party.
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