Yeah, you got it. I get very little respect.
Some of this, I deserve. I can be goofy and annoying. There’s a ring of truth to the comments my boys sometimes make about me being immature, like when I get on their case just for the sheer joy of annoying them. Other times, though, they fail to see my strengths. Like, I’m not quite as dedicated to my exercise regimen as they may be. But I’m like 30 years older than they are. Our senses dull a little with age and I just can’t seem to hear that little voice that says “Push on” when the legs want to quit running or the arms don’t want to lift those weights. But I still do push myself…a little. At least give me some credit for putting on those running shoes!
Tonight, after downing 6 slices of Pizza Hut pizza, Youngest Son decided to go for a run before it got too dark. Mr. Track Star is the same little dude who used to hate me the most, cussing me out under his breath the whole entire time he ran around the community track, back when I used to bribe the kids to run a mile with me for Dairy Queen rewards. Now he’s psycho-runner, breaking his school’s records at track meets, building bulging calf muscles doing wind sprints, mapping killer 5 mile practice runs through the neighborhood.
Does he give me any credit, though? No. Instead he comes home with this story about how he nearly puked multiple times during this evening’s run. It was pretty funny hearing about how the pizza tasted so good going down but how the flavor of the sauce takes on an evil salty aftertaste when it wants to come back up. I empathized with his desire not to throw up in front of the elderly neighbor lady who was out walking her dog and so he made himself plod on, knowing that if he stopped, the puke would flow. But then my amusement at his clever telling of this tale vanished at the point when he said he almost quit running after the first mile, but then he decided he “didn’t want to be like MOM.” Really?
Mr. Big Shot is running a 5K on Memorial Day. I didn’t sign up this year. It would serve him right if I plopped a Pizza Hut pizza in front of him Monday morning before the race, because that little voice of his may know how to keep him running through the pain, but it hasn’t been able to convince him not to down half a large pizza before going for a run.