Five Minutes

I had what my 7th grade math teacher called a "Tornado Day" yesterday. Just one of those, whatever-could-go-wrong-will, Murphy's Law kinda days. It was already kind of an annoying day where I was slightly frazzled and annoyed. And then I got a text from a good buddy, Running Coach Kara, saying this:

"u need to run 3:35 this year for Boston"

What?!

What the...

I checked my email and she had forwarded us the link to the BAA's announcement yesterday about the new qualification times for 2012. And I totally get why they are doing it. I heard how fast it sold out this year, and I get it.

But this year. IT HAD TO BE THIS YEAR, DIDN'T IT?

$%&$%^^&@(&^#!)^%@@!

So then I was PISSED. Like really really pissed. I drove home with what I'm sure was a ridiculous scowl on my face.

FREAKINGFIVEMINUTES

To which my husband replied, "It's just five minutes."

Spoken like a guy who's never ran a marathon before, right?

So I thought long and hard about it. I slept on it. I lack of slept on it. I got up around 3:58 to pee and couldn't fall back asleep because I was thinking about it. And I realized something.

When on earth have I ever been afraid of five minutes?

I had a long conversation with myself.

And I made a decision.

I refuse to fear five minutes.

And I later confirmed that these five minutes won't affect me in May--all it really does is ensure that 3:40 will be my time until I'm 40. Not until next year, or even this fall, like originally thought.

3:40 it is.

3:40, I'm out for you.

I don't need no stinkin' five minutes. In fact, I would like to state something for the record. In the words of one of the greatest fake Indians players ever, "I say, eff you, five minutes. I DO IT MYSELF."