Mrs. Flinger: A work in progress

UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015

Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.

So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.

The Fine Print Jul 02, 2009

I tend to say yes a lot. This is great for my husband, kids and my clients and horrid for my knees and my canker sores. I say yes before reading the small print. I say yes before asking a ton of questions. I just, you know, like to say yes.

“You want to move to Seattle?” “YES!”

“You think we should by a townhouse that will depreciate in value for the first time in a market since 1984?” “YES!”

“You wanna walk a half marathon with me?” “YES!”


This last one, oy, it’s the biggie.

So without really training, without so much as printing out a map, I joined my friend for a 13.1 mile walk through Seattle. I joined 24,999 other people who were just as crazy (or more so, some of them were doing the full marathon) and we forged together like cattle to the butchers. At least, that’s how I felt.

The thing about doing something so insane is that somewhere in the process, you gain your sanity. During miles 1-3, I pretty much woke up slowly, walking in a haze and meandering between bodies. During miles 4-9 I poured my heart out to Paige telling her everything, in detail, that had been going on for the last, oh, two years? And then around mile 10 we both got it. IT. We realized several things:

1. This is fucking hard.

2. We are going to finish.

3. Leslie’s knees are older than her heart.

4. Much. Older.

5. Mile ten is the longest motherfucking mile in any race ever.

6. There is no mile 11. It’s a cosmic joke.

7. We like wine.

8. We will never do this again.

9. We’re proud of ourselves.

10. We can do it.

Then we hit mile 11 and the gig seemed to be up. My knees gave out and my heart monitor yelled at me for going to slow. Years of running and being active have finally brought me, literally, to my knees. I can no long run, jump, or apparently, walk over 9 miles.

Then fat Eric passed me.

It’s a humiliating experience to watch your body age. To see your boobs sag. To know your waist used to go IN and not OUT. To know you celebrate with a burger or chocolate more often than there are reasons to celebrate.

It’s humbling.

Fat Eric was sort of my inner self. He sort of rose up, having started at the same time we did, a large, powerful 350 pound man. He walked the entire way. He had his name in large print on his shirt. “E-R-I-C” and people cheered, “GOOD JOB ERIC! WAY TO GO ERIC! YOU CAN DO IT!”

And he did. He did it. By god, he did it.

It was about this time that I realized several things: I am not who I used to be. Size does not matter. Fitness is a daily process, not a one time race. And.. most importantly, it’s time I push myself in ways my body can work without breaking down.

I think I’ll try swimming.

Somewhere around mile 10 I realized that sometimes it’s ok to take a minute and consider what you’re saying YES to. Maybe it’s OK to read the fine print, to consider your options, to check your calendar. Maybe it’s ok to say NO sometimes.

But not to this. Not to this. I would’ve said yes and been just as proud as I am today. Because we did it.
Paige and I. Together.


(Two of our college friends ran the half so we got our picture of them at the finish, which was really the only time we saw them. Fasties.)

(More photos here.)

(The top picture is our favorite picture of us. It’s from 1997. God we’re young.)