Friday hit me like a ton of Nike Shox, and I quickly realized that all the Meggy B. inflicted guilt I was feeling for not keeping my blog up to date, really paled in comparison to the empty promises I made to myself about taking my training a little more seriously. For some reason, even though the 16 stairs at work were still giving me the workout of my life, I wasn't really taking this "marathon training" seriously. I was taking it so Kristin Cavalierly (in the running for the gayest thing I've ever said? You decide!) that I hadn't trained since my triumphant 8 mile run the previous week. I decided towards the end of the week, as I was staring down a 9 mile run with the same grim determination and fear that Amy Winehouse regards a clean pair of underwear, that I would amend this week's training schedule to: Friday - Cross-Training; Saturday - 40 minute run; Sunday: 9 miles. Luckily, my best friend Carla, and I had a day together planned, which usually involved hijinks and lots of time "regrouping." Carla and I had been best friends since the 8th grade, and as much as it seems that I, a nearly 30 year old man, should be embarrassed about still referring to anyone as a "best friend", I cannot refer to her as anything else. We're best friends. BFFs. Besties. I feel like to refer to her as anything but might give you the impression that she and I have a normal, mature, adult friendship at 28 years old. That would be a lie. And for all the things I am, I am not a liar.
Carla and my friendship started in the 8th grade when the misfit who sat between us in technology was shipped off after getting pregnant. For this, every day I thank God for loose morals, faulty condoms and bad decision making. If it wasn't for some delicious cocktail of those three (with a dash of self-loathing and sluttiness) the nearly cosmic force that is Carla and Ed would never be. And while everyone else who has ever come into contact with us (several retired, disgruntled teachers, our families, our closest friends) might be better off had someone decided to strap on a condom after a midnight screening of Casper at the Broadway Multiplex Cinemas, surely Carla and I would be mere shadows of our current selves, roaming the earth aimlessly, searching for our Hocrux (Harry Potter reference! Nerd alert!).
We've literally been inseparable ever since. The entire basis of my current incarnation of myself is somehow based around her - it was her brother, Steven, my surrogate little brother, The Bean, who passed away from cancer two days after turning sixteen (two weeks before we graduated high school) thus me taking this whole "cancer" thing so seriously. It was in Steven's memory (as well as the memory of my grandparents and in honor of my Tanti (aunt) Annie's battle with cancer), that I founded The Summer Hope Foundation, and subsequently got my job at the American Cancer Society. In Steven's passing, Carla and my already ridiculous relationship, was solidified into something more - in grief, we were bonded forever - a final gift from Steven.
Before you ask - for the five people who read this who don't know Carla & I personally - we dated briefly when we were in college. And when I say briefly, I mean it lasted 5 months, 3 of which she was away at "Seamester" for school. It was a disaster. We had become, without even knowing it, beyond a romantic relationship. Now it's an ongoing joke. Carla is now happily married to a great guy, John - a fact that hasn't stopped our reign of terror. As you can imagine, John is very understanding.
Incidentally, I wanted to go to California for college to be a writer or journalist or something, but when applying to schools, couldn't comprehend the thought of being across the country, while Steven was sick. It's funny how the things in life lead you to where you are.
Thankfully, Carla (all 100 pounds of her) was on a health kick and we did something we've never done before - we walked. We're not very active people to begin with, and we certainly have a tendency to bring out the sloth in one another. But Carla is nothing if not supportive - If I was found in a pool of blood with a knife and a nun's severed head, Carla would swear on all that is holy that the bitch had it coming. She knew I had to do some cross-training that day (and I checked my book and walking counts). John is an outdoorsy kinda guy - hiking, camping, pasteurizing his own milk, that sort of thing, so Carla knew of a path by their house. I find this very annoying, not just because the word Kayak sounds like a vomit noise to me, but it also seems like Jigsaw-level torture.
Carla and I went to the path, which was about .5 miles each way, and we walked in the blistering heat for about an hour. It wasn't a workout that was going down in history anytime soon, but it was in the ballpark of what I was supposed to do that day.
The rest of the day was filled with the usual missteps (all these years later, we can't seem to get anything right - even going to the bank is a process), but we enjoyed ourselves, specifically, looking for ugly things in Home Goods that could be used at Summer Hope's 1st Annual Hope Cup Golf Outing (Carla, naturally, serves on my board). We decided at our last meeting, that at The Hope Cup, there should be a trophy which would get passed around year to year, with the winners names engraved on it. But, of course, it would have to be hideous. Here were our options;
We sent these pictures to my cousin, Mike, an avid Golfer, Summer Hope Board Member and the person running Summer Hope's Golf Tournament. He didn't get back to us. In all fairness, he's sort of sick of us by now...
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