I'm running in a 5k on Sunday.
I signed up really only because I thought that it would be cool to casually run my 5k while pushing the jogger containing four month old twins that grew to fruition in my womb. And I knew that when I came in last, people would hardly notice, because hey - cute babies.
Things have sort of unraveled from my initial plan. And really, I deserve it, cause I was sort of just trying to be casual-cool-runner-mom. Devastatingly beautiful, casual, cool, runner-mom.
Turns out you cannot run with babies in our jogger until they're eight months old. And desperate as I may be to have my babies make me look good, I'm going to trust the manufacturer's advice on this one.
Turns out that even sans babies, I'm clocking a sturdy TWELVE minute mile.
Turns out, I am rarely casual.
Let me repaint the projected image of my 5k in a little color I like to call reality.
I will frantically run the 5k, constantly concerned about the well being of my sweet twins (who will be in the very competent hands of a very competent friend at the finish line), scarcely able to mask my jealously of the women in their nineties who gracefully bound past me like ballerina gazelles. I probably won't be able to suck in my residual baby bump while I run, and it will jiggle. Also jiggling will be my breasts, and this is a new, addictive, and marvelous concept for me. So I probably won't be able to get over my awe that real, live, cleavage attached to my real, live, body is actually bouncing, and I'll spend much of the race looking down and wondering if people can tell that I'm not really Pam Anderson. I'll also spend much of the race worrying that this jiggling will lead to some sort of tear, and that one of my highly prized boobies will end up SPLAT! on the ground. I'll force myself to run all the way to the finish line. Unless I've given in to my little ice cream-for-breakfast habit, in which case I'll develop a torturous cramp and have to walk. Ach.
And here, my friends, is what will make it all worth it:
This race happens to be at a brewery. A brewery that gives you beer at the finish line.
I will take my sweet babies in my arms, hike up my shirt, latch on the little guys, and take a long, sweet sip, ignoring (totally not ignoring) all judgment.
I refuse to stop dreaming.