20 Weeks Done

It’s official. Today, Janya and I capped off our 20 weeks of marathon training with a light four miler. We’ll rest tomorrow and Friday and then loosen up with a two miler on Saturday before the big 26.2 on Sunday.

Although PF Chang’s Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon will be my fourth, there are always the nerves, the mind game, the phantom pains, the excitement, the sleepless nights starting last night in which you run every which case scenario through your head that could happen during the race, good and bad. The big question: Will I finish? The second big question: If I finish, will I meet my goal time? This go around, I’ve told every one that I have no goal time (“I just want to finish,” I say; “I am just happy to be able to run,” I answer) but I do. I always do. You always do. There’s always a time.

Janya and I parted our ways by congratulating each other. It’s a huge sense of accomplishment crossing off the last training run, and with no injuries (with the exception of a lost toenail). I believe the real race happens during training. Training, for me, is the real feat. Think about it: 20 weeks versus four hours; 491 miles versus 26. However, ask me that question at mile 20 on Sunday and I may change my tune. My bib number is 3765 and the marathon is set for Sunday, January 18 at 7:40 a.m. (Arizona). For now, I have become the strongest person that I can be.

HoMedics

Now, I am not sure how much trouble I will be in with my dad for repeating this little story, but my mom gave me full permission to tell from her perspective. When she relayed this to me over the phone at the beginning of December, I nearly collapsed on the floor in a fit of laughter. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to remember to blog about it actually. Sorry dad, but it’s a funny one.

My dad has been experiencing a lot of pain in his back (not the funny part). In response, mom decided she would get him this fancy little massage thingy that fits in your chair and vibrates for Christmas. She saw an ad for it one afternoon in a commercial or in a brochure or something and quickly wrote down the brand name on a piece of paper as a reminder. She left the reminder on the counter for the next time she ventured out on a shopping trip. She was elated that she finally had found something to get for the impossibly-hard-to-shop-for dad or, in her case, husband.

So, of course, the next time she left the house, she completely forgot the piece of paper. There the reminder sat, waiting on the counter. Luckily, she did remember that she forgot the piece of paper and was reminded as to what she had written down. Thus, she didn’t forget to pick up the massage chair while she was out running errands. And, while she was out, her cell phone rang.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello,” dad said, flatly.

“Well, how do you do?” she said, kiddingly.

“Do you want to tell me something?” my dad inquired, sounding annoyed.

“Eh, um. No, no…not that I can think of. Why?” she carefully but curiously asked.

“So. I take it you are not going to tell me what a home dick is?” he curtly questioned.

“A WHAT!?!” she screamed, incredulously.

“A home…dick,” he repeated with emphasis.

“WHAT’S A HOME DICK!?!” she yelled back, horrified.

“Well, Pam, I’m asking YOU what a home dick is, as you’re the one who has home dicks written down on your To Do list,” he accused, sarcastically.

Mom went silent, thinking...home dicks? Home dicks? Where would he get home dicks from? Perplexed and somewhat amused by the entirety of the conversation she continued…

“Bill, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. Why in the world would I write down something like home dicks on my To Do list?…,” she started to defend when all of a sudden a box caught her eye in the rearview mirror. There in the backseat of her car was the box that held the massage chair.

The brand name read: HOMEDICS.