Hey guy,
Just sitting here behind you looking at your bumper sticker. “13.1”, huh? You should be proud you ran that half-marathon. I mean, not proud enough to think it worthy of everyone’s recognition. I think you’re a bit unclear on how bragging works, so turn on the BBQ, because I’m about to grill up some knowledge burgers: never brag about something that can be easily bested. For example, a kid on the basketball court doesn’t brag about being able to touch the rim when one of his friends can dunk. See what I’m saying? Yeah, it’s impressive that you ran a race of just barely over thirteen miles, but not when there’s so many people out there running 26.2 miles.
Have I ever done a half-marathon? Of course not. My Saturdays are better spent sitting on the couch eating a Costco-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
But I’m still not impressed by you, particularly if the driver next to you has a “26.2” sticker. Speaking of: if you’re driving and you’re about to pass someone with that full-marathon sticker on their car, do you decide not to pass, knowing that if you were to pass, the other driver’d no doubt chuckle and shake his head the way a father does when watching his toddler try to figure out how a straw works? Or do you pass the other car and curse yourself for ever affixing that sticker in the first place?
Running a half-marathon is like dating the hottest women in her group of friends. But then one of her college friends moves to the area and is hotter. That guy who dates her is the full-marathon runner. And the ultra-marathoner is the guy who dates the woman’s unreal hot cousin who would have been a model but decided to get a medical degree instead, and is super nice to everyone, and even though the other women should all be jealous and catty around her they can’t because she’s just that great. And she cooks. So now you went from being on top to being middle of the pack. How’s that feel?
Sure, you should be proud of your accomplishment, but maybe it shouldn’t be your pickup line. I mean…shoot, I spilled some Doritos.
Sincerley,
Monday, August 17, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
It's All in My Head
I’m much funnier in my head. At least I like to think so. My brain works too fast for my mouth and has already moved on to something else by the time I get around to saying what I wanted to say and then words just spill out all over the place, never being what I originally intended to say, but now it’s out there and I can’t take it back. I’m unintentionally funny. When I speak, my brain’s running and trying to double-back hoping to catch any slips that I’m about to make. I usually fail to catch them, and I often dot my speech with phrases like, “I can’t believe I just said that,” or “That wasn’t what I meant to say.”
I often talk to myself in the car. Not on purpose. I don’t mean to say things out loud, again, it just sort of falls out. And then it’s there, waiting for company. And I’m worried that someone from the car in the other lane just saw me say to myself, “Yeah, but I would never eat oysters.” I wonder what it must be to watch me while I drive. I cringe, grimace, frown, and generally feel embarrassed for myself. Not from anything at that moment, but because I remember situations where I made a fool of myself when I was a kid. I can’t remember faces, or where I was yesterday, but I do remember the time in 5th grade when I slipped in the mud before school, getting my jeans soaked, and called my mother to bring me a change of pants, but instead she brought sweatpants and I changed in the boys’ bathroom by the third grade classrooms. I sometimes wonder if anyone else remembers those things about me. Like if at my ten-year reunion one of my former classmates will approach me to say they remember when I… But I bet most people can only recall their own embarrassing instances.
I’ve considered being mute for a stretch, but don’t want my brain to build up with too much to say that isn’t allowed to pour from my unfiltered mouth. I think I prefer writing to speaking. At least when I have a point I want to make. I have more time to compose; to formulate; and I can also revise. Because I know I can’t be relied on to clearly state my point when I’m talking. That’s asking too much of me.
I often talk to myself in the car. Not on purpose. I don’t mean to say things out loud, again, it just sort of falls out. And then it’s there, waiting for company. And I’m worried that someone from the car in the other lane just saw me say to myself, “Yeah, but I would never eat oysters.” I wonder what it must be to watch me while I drive. I cringe, grimace, frown, and generally feel embarrassed for myself. Not from anything at that moment, but because I remember situations where I made a fool of myself when I was a kid. I can’t remember faces, or where I was yesterday, but I do remember the time in 5th grade when I slipped in the mud before school, getting my jeans soaked, and called my mother to bring me a change of pants, but instead she brought sweatpants and I changed in the boys’ bathroom by the third grade classrooms. I sometimes wonder if anyone else remembers those things about me. Like if at my ten-year reunion one of my former classmates will approach me to say they remember when I… But I bet most people can only recall their own embarrassing instances.
I’ve considered being mute for a stretch, but don’t want my brain to build up with too much to say that isn’t allowed to pour from my unfiltered mouth. I think I prefer writing to speaking. At least when I have a point I want to make. I have more time to compose; to formulate; and I can also revise. Because I know I can’t be relied on to clearly state my point when I’m talking. That’s asking too much of me.
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