Each year at the beginning of February, I’m bombarded by a numerical reminder of how long I’ve been kicking around this earth.  While I’m very irritated that this happens annually (and that I’m actively descending in to middle age), I try my best to take joy in the little things- reflecting upon my decades of experiences and of course, cake.  I love cake almost as much as I love running, probably more.  The thing is I don’t allow myself to have my cake (and eat it too) as often as I force myself to log miles simply because indulging in that much sugary, floury and buttery perfection would be heavenly really, really unhealthy.  Also, my pastry-laden badankadonk would most certainly hinder both my speed and my ability to fit in to any clothing besides sweets sweats.  But I figure that once a year I can eat cake with reckless abandon, as long as I’m also running somewhere besides back to the fridge for seconds.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that I’m a creature of habit, so switching my longish run from Sunday to Saturday was no small challenge.  Since my birthday fell on Sunday and I wanted to give my family every opportunity to let me sleep in, to wait on me hand and foot,  and to shower me with accolades and gifts- I was willing to make the sacrifice of deviating from my routine.  I judiciously set my alarm for 7am in order to meet some buddies for a run at 8am.  I guess my body didn’t appreciate me switching things up (for however a selfless list of a reasons) because apparently I shut off my alarm and went back to sleep until 8:30am.  Oops.  When I awoke in a haze of disbelief, I briefly entertained the idea of bagging a run altogether.  But when I remembered that the next day was cake fest 2014, I hauled my protesting limbs out of bed and slunk down the stairs for a pre-run cup of coffee.

  I do some of my best thinking, and have some my greatest epiphanies, while running- especially when I decide to check all distracting devices at the door.  I set out for my better-late-than-never jaunt alone and gadget-free, mostly because I was too lazy to round up all the attention diverting crap I usually bring along on solo runs.  I spent the first mile and a half desperately trying to settle in to a comfortable yet respectable pace, and seriously second guessing my decision to not muffle the strangled sound of my breath with headphones.   But eventually my gasping was overtaken by an even-ish cadence, releasing my brain from thoughts of imminent collapse to more profound stuff like my upcoming birthday.

43…hmmm…43…what!?…I’m old as shit or dirt or shitty dirt….ok, calm down…you’re still in your early 40s (the mid40s won’t start until next year)…but I’m old enough to reminisce about things that happened 20 years ago and actually recall them semi-clearly…how did this happen?! I don’t feel like I’m about to be 43 (until I look in the mirror and see my not-so-fine-lines and gravity-stricken body, or sprain my ankle during marathon training, or forget what I had for breakfast this morning)…Crap! I’m 43 and I’m wrinkly and clumsy and forgetful…I’m so not in my 20s anymore…lots of great things happened in my 20s!  I started running, met CMB, got married, became a mother, and did a bunch of other neat stuff that I can’t remember because I’m going to be 43!…OK that’s enough! Focus on the positive…the glass is half full, right?…so you have some battle scars but you have an amazing life…2 healthy and delightful kids, a loving husband with the patience of a saint, a comfortable home, really cool belongings…hey! optimism is as addictive as peanut m&ms…let’s see…what else is different today than 20 years ago?..I’m not afraid to speak my mind…I can afford the good wine…I could give a rat’s ass whether or not people I don’t care about like me (but really, what’s not to like?)…I’m a lot tougher- I have a higher tolerance for discomfort  (natural childbirth and marathons will do that for ya)…I’m better at applying make-up…I could go on and on but I’ll either end up boring you or making you super-jealous of all my good fortune.”

I arrived home dripping with sweat,  high on endorphins and full of warm fuzzies.  Sure my incentive to run was really just  to burn enough calories to earn me several courses of dessert.  But on a good day (and I’d definitely count this among them) both logging miles and allowing my thoughts to run where they may,  have a way of jedi-mind tricking reminding me of how good I have it.   And of how much I’m gonna be digging on that cake.