I was trying to break two hours in the Houston Half-Marathon this weekend but was about nine minutes too late. But hey, if the race had only been 12 miles, I would have totally reached my goal. It was still my best time ever, and I’m always happy to finish those things, so I’m definitely not complaining. I was on track to go under two hours until about mile seven or eight when I started questioning the whole idea of marathons in general and smelling donuts. (Side Note: I overheard another runner tell her runner friend that the donuts smelled disgusting while she was running. I was like DUDE STFU NO THEY DON’T THEY ACTUALLY SMELL DELICIOUS. But I just kept quiet so as not to ruin my momentum.) I actually just felt like I completely ran out of gas. Running out of gas in a car when you have more than five miles to go is rough, so imagine running out of gas when you’re…running. I have a feeling Sunday wasn’t my last half-marathon though, so I’ll have another chance! Plus I didn’t want to steal the Ethiopians’ thunder and finish the half before they had a chance to finish the full. I hate to rain on parades like that.
My two biggest fans, my stepdad and Casey, came to cheer me on, and Casey took some snapshots. Only problem was this chick kept thinking he was taking pictures of her, so she’s the main focus of all my pictures. She obviously has no qualms about stealing someone’s thunder.
Casey’s response: Megan, I can’t help it I’m so good looking. Girls like to smile at me.
After walking around aimlessly for a half hour or so (not fun after a lengthy jog around H-town) looking for my favorite dudes, Casey finally came running toward me in a romantic fashion, and I’m not quite sure I’ve ever been happier to see him ever ever ever in my life. It was like waking up in the middle of the night feeling close to death from thirst, sticking your head under the faucet of your bathroom sink, and wondering why they don’t charge hundreds of dollars for tap water because dayuuuum it tastes so good at odd hours of the night. Casey is my 3 a.m. tap water. Heartz.
After reuniting, we started making our way to the car when a kind volunteer stopped me to congratulate me. (She had probably confused me with the Ethiopians who won the race. Classic mistake. Happens to me all the time.) I thanked her and as we continued our stroll, Casey pondered outloud:
“Do you think she’s congratulating you on that race or the fact that you married me?”
Gee, Case. I dunno. That’s a toughie.
Later that day, I was resting my feet on Casey, because you can do that when you’re married and someone has decided they’ll be with you forever no matter what life throws your way and also no matter what your feet look like. And I said to Casey something about how my feet really are ugly. I wasn’t looking for a response and I definitely wasn’t fishing for a compliment from Casey even though he is quite good at giving me one when I do go fishing for one. I have known for quite some time I have hideous feet, and I’ve accepted it. Sometimes I just like to admit it outloud. Or maybe I just like to hear myself talk in general, not sure. Nevertheless I got a response.
Casey: “Not your best feature. Not your best feature.”
Said twice for dramatic effect.