Today marks the importance of two of my most significant relationships. No, not vodka and Bruce Springsteen. Okay, yes, it's true those are two of my greatest loves, but they're both unrequited and rank slightly lower than the ones I mean.
Today I've been married for 9 years, and it's also the first occasion of National Running Day. I've been running for 10 years, so no one can say I started running to avoid my marriage, though you could rightly say I started running to cope with planning a wedding. (It is not a coincidence at all that I started running exponentially more when Henry turned two.)
Some people might argue I'm actually married to running, and they would have a very good point, but I'm a modern gal and therefore have no problem with polyandry. In fact, many running mothers would probably say that they go hand in hand: a partner to watch the kid so you can take off for a romp with your other love, running.
So how far do you run on your 9th anniversary of marriage, which corresponds with a nationwide celebration of running?
Two bloody miles.
I'm in full-on taper hell, people, and on an auspicious day like this, I have to run two little HMP miles. And go berserk the rest of the day, lucky for my partner in life. Me without the catharsis of speed work is kind of like Elvis without... well, speed.
I don't get PMS, but I get TMS (Taper Madness Syndrome), which has already led me to give Brian explicit instructions not to buy me anything romantic this week. He knows I'm not generally into romance, but I think I might have actually used the word schlock and uttered the directive, "Don't buy me flowers." He is so screwed. No matter what he does, he will suffer today, poor guy. No gift, and he's an asshole. Roses and sentimentality, and he doesn't listen. Sorry, dear. You knew I was a bratty narcissist when you married me (surely my dad mentioned this beforehand). Happy anniversary.
The traditional 9th anniversary gift is pottery. Dear God, no.
The modern 9th anniversary gift is leather. Dear God, yes.
My guess, though, is that we'll spend the evening with a Hawaiian pizza and a very sexy discussion of the third party in our marriage--running--while he's on the foam roller and I lie on a tennis ball. This is a running marriage. We'll review my race strategy, talk about how pretty I am, and inevitably fight about how this blog is destroying our relationship. This is a running marriage when one person is a raging egomaniac with a blog.
So in honor of National Running Day, go run something; feel free to add a few miles for my tapery self. And to recognize my 9th anniversary, please pray for my husband, who has quite possibly the second worst wife ever. The man is, without a doubt, tougher than the rest.