So my sister, Brooke, is running the Mardi Gras Marathon in New Orleans tomorrow, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t write a post wishing her luck. She’s been training for about a year now, is in redonkulously fantastic shape (and taking no end of grief from me about it, considering I myself am only “in shape” if the shape you are referring to is “spherical”), and I’m sure she’s going to do great.
Growing up with her was basically what it must have felt like to have been Prince Harry (before Harry got all smoking hot and Prince William grew a little more balding and horsey-faced with each passing day). She was always thin, blonde, blue-eyed, and gorgeous where I was chunky, frizzy-haired, lazy-eyed and generally troll-like.
So the fact that we made it through adolescence (despite a few awful incidents that involved flying books, one steak knife, and lots of spitting) (don’t ask) and ended up in adulthood as great friends without me resenting the hell out of her whole existence speaks volumes about her coolness (clearly, my own coolness was never in question).
If you’re interested in running, you should definitely check out her blog–it’s actually really popular, I’m amazed at how many comments her posts get–and maybe leave her a comment wishing her luck. It’s her first marathon, so she’s just looking to finish without any of the following happening:
Excessive toenail casualties
Loss of bladder control
And, of course, pants-crapping. I told her today that all I really know about running marathons is that sometimes people crap their pants, and that she really ought to be careful. She assured me that would not be an issue, but like a good little sister I reminded her that generally when people crap themselves it’s becasue they had no choice in the matter. She appears, however, undeterred.
I wish I could be there, because I would insist that she celebrate the accomplishment by going to the drive-thru daquiri place, and then maybe that bar near her place with all the hula-hoops. WHOO!
Now, if you’re excuse me, I have to go to the gym to start in on my catching up with her fitness train—even if I’m currently still holding out hope that after 31 years, she’ll enter her “balding, horsey-faced, Prince William” phase any moment.