You know me. Despite these years of wallowing about everything from insomnia to 20-year-old sex-trollers to rainy, soggy skies, I have never, never, never, wallowed about the Boston Marathon.
Today I need to wallow about the Boston Marathon.
This morning as I biked down St. James Street towards the office, and I saw all those pesky, post-race Family Meeting Area alphabet signs hanging from the streetlights, and my stomach muscles cramped up and I got really, really crabby.
I hate that it is going to go on next Monday.
I hate that I'll just go to work like any normal day, except that Copley Square will be covered in folding tables that are in turn covered with towers of stacked Gatorade glasses.
I hate that later the streets will be covered with folks in mylar capes and sweaty hair. That I'll have to walk by them all as I leave the office.
I never anticipated that, when I started running marathons 8 years ago, that I would hate so badly watching races I'm not running in. The first time I watched Boston after having done a race myself, even though it was 90 degrees and folks were stumbling to the finish, I stood at mile 25 and cried for an hour. I found that I was not happy for all those noble finishers. I was ridiculous jealous.
Well, I chose quite specifically not to run this race this year. And I know it.
I guess that means I should promise to work on my attitude.
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