My Love of the F-Bomb

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There are few things in life that give me as much satisfaction as dropping an appropriately timed and well-deserved F-bomb. 

This doesn't mean I'm proud of this habit. Far from it. One of the things I like least about myself is my propensity to curse. It's unattractive and shows a lack of intelligence if the most creative and insightful thing I can think of to say is shit, fuck, or damn. 

And yet. 

I dropped a big one in my half-marathon on Sunday. I was running strong, racing toward my PR, when I came to the 5-mile water stop. 

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Ego Boost

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I went to packet pick-up yesterday for the half-marathon race on Sunday. The store had two greeters standing outside with PCs. As I walked up, one of them--a woman in her mid 50's--exclaimed, "Dena!" 

I looked at her and didn't recognize her. As I started to say hi, she said, "You're Dena Harris!" 

"I'm so sorry, tell me your name," I said. 

"Oh, we don't know each other," she said. "I just know you from all the races. You're one of the fastest women runners in Greensboro."

I burst out laughing because this is so not true. Yes, I do well for my age group but by no stretch of the imagination would I deserve her description of me. Still.

"You just made my day," I said grinning. "I feel like I should give you money or something." 

Anyway, just one of those small, odd moments in life that leaves you smiling. I never did get her name, but thank you store-greeter lady. You're the best! 

2016 Race Season Is Here

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One of the top questions I’m asked by family and friends (aside from, “Did you eat all the chocolate yourself?” and “Do you really think that’s an appropriate thing to blog about?”) is “What’s your next race?” 

I recently saw some social media post from Eventbrite where they were asking runners about their upcoming races and what they liked best about racing and if they would ever consider designing their own race.

 [Answer to the last two questions: What I like best is being done and eating free food at the finish line. And any race I design is going to be rigged so that I win everything. Duh.]

 But regarding that upcoming race thing, I’m in a weird place. For almost 10 years, I’ve run two marathons a year. I would pick them out at the end of the calendar year, target them, train for them and knock them out. But something odd and more than a little scary happened to me a couple of years ago.

I got tired of racing.

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Dating Diaries: Wait For It

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I emailed Mom to ask where she wanted to go for Mother’s Day, suggesting that we go out on Saturday to avoid the Sunday crowds.

“I’d love a good steak,” she emailed back. “Maybe Applebee’s?”

 “We’re not going to %$^$** Applebee’s,” I emailed back. “But I will take you out for a steak dinner.”

I made a reservation at one of the best steakhouses in Greensboro. The service was impeccable and our waiter was a very handsome gentleman, one of those silver foxes who could be 55 or an extremely well preserved 65. For the record, my mom, at 72, could easily pass for 62.

The conversation turned to dating and I encouraged her to get out there. She waved me away.

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