My first half-marathon is this coming Sunday. Today was planned as the Last Push before the race, my last chance to beef up the confidence. Today did not work out as planned. Instead of ten miles I ran five, walked maybe three, as Minnesota was blessed with a random heat wave of 93 and sustained winds of 35 mph. As I made it back to the car, feeling awful about my chances for success this weekend, I decided that there is really only one way to think of my pathetic last run.
The final dress rehearsal is supposed to be crap. I should go onstage with my costume inside out (To Kill a Mockingbird). I should trip over the couch and sprain my ankle (Lost in Yonkers). I should get the hiccups during my opening monologue (The Bald Soprano). I should be forced to repeat the death scene 9 times because the director feels I'm not crying adequately (Falstaff). My heel should get caught in my hoop skirt during the emotional final scene (Secret Service). My nose should randomly start bleeding (The Crucible). I should forget my first line (Approaching Lavendar). My dress should rip (Steel Magnolias). I should get punched in the stomach by my partner when I twirl onstage (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead). I should bite my tongue hard enough to draw blood (Spinning into Butter). I should drop my cigarette and burn a hole in my negligee (Biloxi Blues).
I have never been one for fantastic last hurrahs. I've always faltered before the Big Day, the Big Race, the Big Test, the Big Move, the Big Anything. Maybe it's nerves. Maybe it's some subconscious need to get the bad, self-deprecating vibes out while there's still time to rebuild my hope. Today's run was just my requisite shit final dress rehearsal.
Opening night can still be golden.
No comments:
Post a Comment