Early this morning — long before dawn — I heard Sophie roll over and cough that kind of I’m-getting-ready-to-barf cough.
My first thought: Oh no! (The stomach flu’s been going around school.)
My second thought: Oh yes! The timing will be just right — at this rate, I’ll be puking myself by Sunday.
A serious bout of stomach flu is about the only thing that can stop the inevitable: I’m signed up to walk a half marathon on Sunday. I am so not a competitive sports kind of girl — I don’t even like to watch competitive sports.
I don’t like to think about competitive sports.
And yet here I am. It’s all thanks to Ms. X, who convinced a group of us to walk with her. (She’s a veteran of several races.)
There have been some positives, for sure, but right now I’m focused on the negative.
Ray is of no use.
“YOU WILL COMPETE IF YOU’RE ON YOUR DEATHBED!” he said (in just that tone) when I told him of my hope for the flu. “THIS IS A COMPETITION! THIS IS SERIOUS!”
I know it’s serious, because my feet hurt constantly. My only solace is that I’ve trained — some. I can say I’ve walked 12 miles in one stretch. (Couldn’t move for days, but still.) Last night a friend/colleague was lamenting the sad state of his life in an email and I replied, “Well, it could be worse. At least you’re not signed up for the PF Chang’s Marathon on Sunday.”
Turns out he is. He plans to walk the half, too. He’s a little concerned, since his only training so far has been to walk the dog around the block.
Suddenly, reading that, I felt better. And it turns out that Sophie’s cough was just a cough. But now that I’ve jinxed myself by writing about it, I’m sure the vomiting’s not far off….