Living vicariousely

Did I mention that I'm an athletic superstar?  Because I am.  It all started for me at about age five.  I have vivid memories of kicking the heads off of dandelions while daydreaming in outfield.  I also almost drown once in our city's public pool.  My seventh grade home-ec teacher thought I was still learning to properly apply eye-shadow when I came to school with one black eye from being elbowed by some vicious, or more likely awkward, girl in a Young Women's basketball game.  I'm pretty sure I hit the ball once in our annual extended family Grassy Lake baseball game.  And in my college basketball class, it eventually came down to me and an overly gawky girl from Russia on one side scrimmaging, and everyone else on the other side.  I'm not ashamed to admit it (okay, maybe a little).

But my real time to shine was high school.  I joined cross-country with my best friend Joy, I'm pretty sure to get close to her crush (who she is NOT happily married to now, so I guess even that didn't work out).  I trained and ran harder and farther than I've ever run before or since.  Because running up the stairs (I ALWAYS run because I ALWAYS think that someone is behind me chasing me.  I know I'm not the only one who's afraid to play tag) or running in fear from your husband when he pretends to chase you with a squished spider aren't exactly considered long-distance.  That's called chicken sprinting.  Anyway, after training with them all summer (at 5am- now that's dedication!) and all year long, the last race of the year before regionals was quickly approaching. 

Coach:  I think you need to run this race.

Me:  I'm not ready.

Coach:  I really think you're ready.  You need to run this race.

Me:  I really don't think I'm ready.

Coach:  You're ready.

Well, I guess after training for an ENTIRE SEASON, he thought I should at least run one race.  So I loaded onto the bus with butterflies eating holes through my stomach and off we went.  On the way there, I remember in detail the conversation I had with a senior girl (and expert runner, might I add).  She had been on this course before.  No loop-de-loops on a track for us.  It was three miles through thicketed forest, up hills, down trenches, across rivers (aided by a bridge), across a baseball field, with the finish at an obscure, hidden elementary school.

Me:  What happens if I get lost?

Miss I can run a mile in three minutes flat:  Just follow the person in front of you.

Me: What if there's no one in front of me?

Her:  Wait for the people behind you.

Me:  What if I come in last?

Her:  You won't.  There's always someone behind you.

Me:  I don't know.  SOMEONE has to come in last.

A little foreshadowing.  To make a long (29ish minutes to be exact- my best time ever) story short, I let all the annoyingly fast people get ahead and stayed behind with the slow pokes, because I'm just not one for competition.  Apparently there were only about three of us, and half way through, the other two left me in their dust.  So, a little while after the officials thought the race was over, I came (from the wrong direction) up to the school, asked around for directions to the finish line, found out I had a half-mile to go around the school and back, and finished the race proudly as everyone (and I mean EVERYONE) watched and then lined up along the sides of the finish chanting my name for moral support.  Like Zelda from Biggest Loser who finished her marathon fifteen hours after everyone else despite her double knee surgery the week before, asthma, current kidney stones and no toes on her left foot. 

This is my only justification for what I am about to confess (I love you, my sisters!)  Growing up in a house full of ladies (not to discount my one brother), I was so jealous of girls that were the only girl in a sea of brothers.  If that had been me, maybe, and this is a BIG maybe, I would have been a little more athletically inclined.  I could have learned not to follow the instinct to shut my eyes when the ball is flying straight for my head.  Or to not throw like a girl.  Or at least not to run in fear up every flight of steps.  Actually, that would probably have been made worse. 

My point is, Liv is about to live out my childhood dream, because here comes another boy. 

And look at that smile- he's so happy to come.