Last week, Blair forwarded me an e-mail from his office about some sort of running group there. Apparently there's a friendly competition about who can win the most races (with age-adjusted times) or run the most miles in a year. The competition is open to the spouses and family of employees.
"I got your e-mail about the running group," I told him. "But I'm not clear on exactly how it works."
"I'm not sure either," said Blair. "I think it's just something fun all the runners do."
"Uh-huh," I said. "Well, I need you to find out two things for me. Number one, what are the rules, and number two, how do I win?"
"I don't think that's really the poi--"
"Ah-ah," I admonished, waving a finger. "Two things. What are the rules? How do I win? Got it?"
So the next day Blair forwards me a longer e-mail from the group, explaining which races are eligible, how to apply, etc. We discussed the e-mail over dinner.
"I think some couples join up as a team," he said, referring to the e-mail.
"We're not a team," I said quickly.
Blair raised his eyebrows and shot me the "Really? You had to go there?" look.
"Don't give me that look," I said. "You know I love you to death but this is a competition. I can't have any dead weight dragging me down."
"What's interesting to me is that you think I even want to be on a team with you," said Blair. "You act like I'm new around here. I'm out."
I grinned. "So we're agreed. I will go to 5k races and cheer you on--'Yay honey! Love you! So proud of you! (psst--someone make a note that we're not on the same team) Way to go, baby! Keep moving!'-- and you will not interfere with my race scores."
"I knew sending you that first e-mail was a mistake," said Blair.
"Honestly, I kind of questioned your judgement when I received it," I agreed.
Looks like it's too late to join the fun this year but 2012, look out. I may even have matching running shirts made up for me and Blair.
They'll read: WE'RE NOT A TEAM.