We sat outside on our porch last night. It was a perfect night. The corn on the cob roasting on the grill acted as our campfire. I, with my glass of wine; he, with his Mexican beer. Perfect, except for the part where we both had to return to work the next day and carry on in the real world.
We were discussing running. Because if we're not talking about golf, or, you know, world peace, we're talking about running. He decided he'd try out a half marathon in the fall, and, of course, he's competitive, so he's not going to just try it out, he's going to beat me. Says the man who's never run further than seven miles.
Anyhow, in a few weeks The Middle is hosting a 5K event. Our friends are running it, so we're going to give it a shot, as well. I'm not a fan of the 5K; 3.1 miles is short and fast. I am neither, so I struggle. I told him I just want to break 24 minutes, which, mind you, is a lofty goal for me.
"Oh, no. You should set a more realistic goal," he says. "Break 21 minutes."
I choked on my wine. More realistic? Never going to happen.
"I'm going to run it in 15 minutes," he continued, mostly being a smart-ass.
I stuck my tongue out and gently reminded him that, honey, only the winners run 5Ks in 15 minutes. But he turned to me, aghast at my words.
"Kritta," he said, glowering. "I am a winner."