It is implied/presumed that THIS version is the RIGHT version of the story (I kid, I kid). But . . . seriously.
Here we go . . .
Anyone who KNOWS me knows that I'm a very particular person with lots of quirks and oddities and a lot, lot, lot of anxiety that is never, ever expressed in normal, healthy, constructive ways. More likely four letter expletives and overly-grand hand gestures and body contortions - ALL bark, ZERO bite (lest any of you fear the relatively safety of the women and pets I live with). So it might come as NO surprise that the days and hours before a half marathon might be rough on me, mentally, and those around me, in every way.
And by hours I mean the week leading-up-to. At least. Forget the day before. Forget the 16 or 14 hours prior to. Forget when FOOD (my real love - mwah, mwah, mwah) is involved. But somehow, the other night, I found myself at the intersection of anxious, confused, and frustrated and at odds with one of my favorite people in the world. What happened? Dinner.
We had the kiddo this weekend and I was trying to prepare for my race. There were no long runs on Saturday or any other distractions (that I would take the bait on) to reel me in. I was just trying, instead, to avoid any and all interactions with my fellow humans while somehow bending the space/time continuum and getting this stupid race over. But - try as I might - I do not (YET) have the powers to make that happen so we did a lot of just sitting around and walking on eggshells. One more inevitable thing happened . . . we had to eat dinner.
SLF, always the wonderful person, took the initiative to get the party started. And she asked a very open-ended question "Does anyone have any thoughts on dinner?" Now, for me, I take that as "Does anyone have any cravings, wants, or desires?" NOT "Does anyone want to run through a comprehensive list of the foods that can and will not eat on the off chance I decide to prepare said meal?" So I shouted back "Nah, follow your heart." The kid, true to form, just ignored the question.
Fast forward about fifteen minutes and the our house equivalent to the chuck wagon triangle bell rang and we headed toward the kitchen. To my great horror two things awaited me:
- SLF made the completely cliche choice (and I love her for it) of going PASTA for dinner the night before the race. Carb-loading. Ha. Bless her heart. FYI - NOT true, NOT helpful, don't be that guy/gal when running.
- She not only made pasta (still laughing at her expense) but she made it even better by teasing it out to one of the handful of foods that, should she asked for a comprehensive list of all the foods they will not eat, would have made the list. TOPPED the list, no less.
I, always more in love with food than myself, ate the pasta and meat sauce until I got actually, physically ill. Never again. Literally. This was probably 1990/1991 and I - nearly 25 years later - had not done the same. I'm okay with lasagnas (no more with the meat) or other pasta dishes with meat but long strands of pasta with meat sauce and sprinkle cheese . . . sweating just typing about it.
Then, about 48 hours later, it was back to normal. Life was good. For now (gulp).