My 46th Birthday Present to Myself

Last Wednesday I turned 46.

I need to let that sink in.

46 . . . . wow.

I mean, come on, this is some sort of cosmic joke, right?

I can’t be 46. Just yesterday I was 18, wasn’t I?

No, clearly it wasn’t just yesterday.

Well, since I have yet to figure out how to stop time, it’s true. I am now closer to 50 than I was to 40. I’ve never had a problem with age. I know a lot of people who freaked out when they turned 30, or 35 or 40. But for some reason, I didn’t. But 46? That just seems old to me.

So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m not going to let my age define me (side note, is that just a thing that old people say?)

I’m going to set (what has so far been) an impossible running goal for myself to achieve over the next four years (by the time I’m 50 – wow, 50 . . . . wait, that’s another post).

Maybe I’m feeling cocky because I ran 19 miles last Sunday and the last four were maybe the best I’ve felt while in sneakers in a year?

Or maybe I’m feeling the age thing?

Or maybe I just need to prove to myself that I can conquer another running goal that has thus far been elusive. Some might even say this is the ultimate running goal.

But you already know what I’m going to say, don’t you?

My plan to to go back to Boston on Patriot’s Day sometime between 2018 and 2020 and show the “granddaddy of all marathons” that I’m a worthy participant. My last time there wasn’t so great (and I did it by raising money for a charity), but if I make it back, well. I’m planning a much different day.

So happy birthday to me.

Wish me luck.