Yesterday, a friend and I went downtown to run an 8k for St. Patrick’s Day. Never mind that I haven’t run anywhere but to the Whole Foods cookie bin in six months, because I’m pretty sure I’m invincible. Right?
So we get there and we get this magical end of the rainbow parking spot and we’ve been listening to Journey and Kansas and Britney and we’re all amped up and ready to go. And the square is full of festival tents and parade floats and beer drinkers and girls in green satin booty shorts and cowboy boots (like the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, only, well, not.). We head off to the bar sponsoring the run and on the way I’m noticing there aren’t really any, you know, runners there, and so we get inside and ask four different people about run registration and each person gives us an odd look until someone kindly points out that the run was, oh, March 3rd. Which I don’t know if you guys check your calendars much, but apparently WAS NOT YESTERDAY.
Our reactions, in order, were:
1. Incredulity followed by embarrassed laughter and mommy brain comments, and then…
2. Guilt and a brief discussion about going elsewhere to run, quickly cut short by the…
3. Dawning realization that not only were we husband- and child-free for TWO-PLUS HOURS, we were husband- and child-free for two-plus hours AT A FESTIVAL IN AN IRISH BAR ON ST. PATRICK’S DAY.
That right there, friends, is proof God loves us. Happy Sunday.
(The downside is we were at a festival in an Irish bar on St. Patrick’s day for two-plus hours and I hadn’t even washed my face, much less put on makeup, so no pictures. Instead, here’s one of my favorite places in Ireland…)
Glendalough. Yay, green.