I have 20 minutes left in the day to post this but today couldn’t just go unrecognized, so here I am blogging instead of my usual napping on the couch before bed ritual.
Today my dad would have been 58. He’s been gone for 12 years yet today, he would just be turning 58. I don’t know if any of my friend’s parents are even that young. I’m almost 30 and I can’t celebrate my dad’s 58th birthday with him.* I mentioned before that he would always say that the worst thing that could happen is that someone take away your birthday. Did it ever make sense to me? No. But it gave me the bravery and confidence that makes me who I am today. And every year on his birthday, I’ve made a point not to take his away. He hated his birthday, even so much that instead of expecting gifts, he would get me a gift instead.
How selfless. How strange. How very dad-like of him.
And it was terrible. I wanted to quit at mile three. I actually told myself that I would quit and just tell everyone that I did 5.8. But… what’s the point? Why couldn’t I just run another 3 miles? It could be worse. And so I did. I walked a little (or a lot), I ran through the rain, I ran slow, I ran through pain in my knee, and I ran through tears. But I did it. For him. In that hour, I was pretty proud of myself.
this article on pinterest yesterday that I thought was fairly accurate.