Yesterday, my sister, who is about to reach that unmentionable half-century mark of age, crossed the finish line of the 26 mile marathon in 5 1/2 hours.
I mentioned this little tidbit proudly to a few of my friends who jog. Some run for reasons of health. A few race to catch the ice cream truck before it gets out of sight. Most of them are in their late 30s and early 40s. Naturally, they were impressed by my sister's accomplishment, especially since none of them have run any marathons.
Of course, they didn't want to appear to each other as slackers of the jogging world. When one person mentioned how he ran 5 miles the previous day, the rest chimed in with tales of two and six and 10 mile runs. They also chimed in with "I would have run more, but I have an injury I have to be careful of." Not excuses, of course. Some days you can't train as much when you have to get home to trim the cat's toe nails.
Their boasting finally quieted down as they stared at me, expecting to hear of my exercising exploits. The best I could do was, "Well, I hate to brag. I ran to the bathroom today! Four times! Three of which I made it there successfully. Not only did I not have to train, but, thanks to the medicine, I didn't feel the burn either!"
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