So, for fun, I ran a 5K last night after work. It was a cross country race in the county park, and they promised Dilly Bars at the finish, so I was all over that business. The local running club I belong to sponsored the first annual event, and since I'm a member by default - I won a year membership in a drawing - I thought I'd be an active participant. Nevermind that it was approximately 98.5 degrees outside and that the air was chewable. And also that I suck at 5Ks. Because, wheee! Dilly Bars!
So I ran. And it was hot. And miserable. And I got sweat in my eyes and down my crack. And my time? It was worse than it should have been. But I got my Dilly Bar, dangit. And it was delicious, and it melted down my hand and onto my racing bib and landed on my shoes. And I wanted to roll around in it.
And then all of a sudden they announced my name, while I was in the midst of making love to a chocolate Dilly Bar. I won an award in my age group. Third place in the female 25 to 29 age group.
Sure as shit, there was a medal, ready to hang on my neck. I licked the chocolate off my face and accepted my award with grace, thanking God, kittens and rainbows, for the honor. And then I looked at the group of road-weary runners, and realized I may have been the only 25-year-old female in the race. The race had been dominated by high school cross country runners and middle-aged men.
I wore my medal proudly, anyway. And brought it home to hang with the others. I say "others" as if that's what I do, collect medals commemorating my mediocre performances in area races. And then I realized, oh. That is what I do.