Thursday, September 20, 2007

Marthon Man, My Ass

My husband thinks he's going to run a marathon in March.


not that Hubby doesn't have what it takes to train for and run a
marathon. It's just that I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to let

Marathon training takes a lot of time. Time that he could
spend being ordered around by me, catering to my every whim and just
generally keeping me company when I get bored. It's time I value, and
I'm not sure I want to sacrifice it.

In theory, we all want our
spouses to pursue their dreams and achieve their goals. But in
practice, we'd much rather have them around to take out the trash and
discuss the op/ed pages. Sure, we all need our privacy and our space,
but that's why bathroom doors come with locks.

To have large hunks of defined time when Hubby leaves to go running – when Zev and I are on our own, not being the focus of all of Hubby's attention – well, that's just nonsense.

is going to cook us breakfast on weekend mornings? Who is going to walk
the dog or bring in the paper? (I know what you're going to say, "There
is another person in the house." But Zev is far too young to take on
these tasks.)

I didn't get married so that I can be left at home
on weekend mornings while my husband exercises. I got married so that
someone could watch my child while I grab a glass of wine with my

Unfortunately Hubby hasn't caught on. He really thinks he's going to run a marathon. He bought new shoes and everything.

not the first time that Hubby has been under the delusion of exercise.
Years ago he got pretty far in marathon training, running up to 17
miles for some stretches. But we had just moved in together, and I
eventually convinced him there were better ways to get sweaty on a
weekend morning than running around a track.

He tried to train
again last year, but I responded by getting violently ill for several
months. I even enlisted my son in our own marathon of puking and fever
spiking. There was no way Hubby could leave the house to train. Not
unless he wanted to run with the free weights of unyielding guilt
bearing down on him.

I had thought I'd effectively crushed his
hope of ever running for 26 continuous miles, telling him that if he
wants to be on his feet for five-hour stretches, he can clean out the
garage. But his dream races on. He recently went so far as joining a
running group.

This is unconscionable. People in running groups
eventually become friends in running groups, which means I might one
day find myself at a party filled with healthy, glowing people whose
thighs don't touch and whose definition of stamina isn't "eat through
the pain." I don't want to party with these people. Marathon training
was deplorable before, but this running group business has to stop.

having a hard time understanding this. I moved our alarm clock to my
side of the bed; he programmed the alarm on his cell phone. I signed up
for a Sunday improv class; he joined a running group that meets on

It seemed that at every turn, he's managed to sprint
ahead of me. But I've been reading Hubby's running magazines (yep, he's
buying running magazines), and I think I've figured out the best
strategy yet to quash his marathon dreams once and for all: letting him
go for it.

Nearly all the articles in his magazines discuss
muscle pain, whacked-out digestive systems, bleeding nipples – problems
one doesn't develop by lounging around the house with one's wife.

longer Hubby trains, the more, he's going to feel the panting, pained
letdown after the initial endorphin rush. None of my discouraging
remarks could come close to approaching the cruelty of a chaffed chest.

So if he wants to believe he's going to run a marathon in March,
let him. I'm guessing that at some point during his training, somewhere
around mile 20, when his stomach feels like it's going to slip out of
his body and every electrolyte in his system has given up the ghost, a
tiny, civilized part of his brain will wake up and realize, "Hey, I can
no longer feel my feet."

"Let's go home," it will instruct him. "I bet the wife wants a beer."

1 comment:

  1. But then you get to mile 20, and you go, "Holy crap! I just ran 20 miles!" And you hurt and everything, but you also feel pretty freakin' awesome.
    And the bleeding nipples? Just get some Body Glide.
    Perhaps not the sympathetic ear you're looking for here. But I say roll on, Gaslin.