My husband thinks he's going to run a marathon in March.
Ha.
It's not that Hubby doesn't have what it takes to train for and run a marathon. It's just that I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to let him. Marathon training takes a lot of time. Time that he could spend being ordered around by me, catering to my every whim and just generally keeping me company when I get bored. It's time I value, and I'm not sure I want to sacrifice it.
In theory, we all want our spouses to pursue their dreams and achieve their goals. But in practice, we'd much rather have them around to take out the trash and discuss the op/ed pages. Sure, we all need our privacy and our space, but that's why bathroom doors come with locks.
To have large hunks of defined time when Hubby leaves to go running – when Zev and I are on our own, not being the focus of all of Hubby's attention – well, that's just nonsense.
Who is going to cook us breakfast on weekend mornings? Who is going to walk the dog or bring in the paper? (I know what you're going to say, "There is another person in the house." But Zev is far too young to take on these tasks.)
I didn't get married so that I can be left at home on weekend mornings while my husband exercises. I got married so that someone could watch my child while I grab a glass of wine with my girlfriends.
Unfortunately Hubby hasn't caught on. He really thinks he's going to run a marathon. He bought new shoes and everything.
This not the first time that Hubby has been under the delusion of exercise. Years ago he got pretty far in marathon training, running up to 17 miles for some stretches. But we had just moved in together, and I eventually convinced him there were better ways to get sweaty on a weekend morning than running around a track.
He tried to train again last year, but I responded by getting violently ill for several months. I even enlisted my son in our own marathon of puking and fever spiking. There was no way Hubby could leave the house to train. Not unless he wanted to run with the free weights of unyielding guilt bearing down on him.
I had thought I'd effectively crushed his hope of ever running for 26 continuous miles, telling him that if he wants to be on his feet for five-hour stretches, he can clean out the garage. But his dream races on. He recently went so far as joining a running group.
This is unconscionable. People in running groups eventually become friends in running groups, which means I might one day find myself at a party filled with healthy, glowing people whose thighs don't touch and whose definition of stamina isn't "eat through the pain." I don't want to party with these people. Marathon training was deplorable before, but this running group business has to stop. Hubby's having a hard time understanding this. I moved our alarm clock to my side of the bed; he programmed the alarm on his cell phone. I signed up for a Sunday improv class; he joined a running group that meets on Saturdays.
It seemed that at every turn, he's managed to sprint ahead of me. But I've been reading Hubby's running magazines (yep, he's buying running magazines), and I think I've figured out the best strategy yet to quash his marathon dreams once and for all: letting him go for it.
Nearly all the articles in his magazines discuss muscle pain, whacked-out digestive systems, bleeding nipples – problems one doesn't develop by lounging around the house with one's wife.
The longer Hubby trains, the more, he's going to feel the panting, pained letdown after the initial endorphin rush. None of my discouraging remarks could come close to approaching the cruelty of a chafed chest.
So if he wants to believe he's going to run a marathon in March, let him. I'm guessing that at some point during his training, somewhere around mile 20, when his stomach feels like it's going to slip out of his body and every electrolyte in his system has given up the ghost, a tiny, civilized part of his brain will wake up and realize, "Hey, I can no longer feel my feet."
"Let's go home," it will instruct him. "I bet the wife wants a beer."