All in a Sunday's Work

Today was a beautiful, awe-inspiring day with all of our many friends out running the 10K. After a little hiccup in the kids' race (they all ran off course, like clueless little sheep, following the feet in front), everything went off without a hitch.
Marc, as usual, ran under an alias, his latest trick; he and Barry always try to outdo one another by choosing something (or someone) random or ridiculous to run under. It never ceases to amaze me how men can talk to each other in such candid and insulting tones. The very idea of me telling a girlfriend that she is fat is absurd, yet men do it all the time. I think the insulting banter they engage in is their way of connecting with each other. We women caudal each other. We encourage and uplift. We console and converse and check in. We hug and nurture each other, kiss, and cuddle. Men? They smack each other and compare hairlines. They exchange numbers from the latest scale reading, and try to injure each other in "play" fighting. Their insults often escalate to physical interludes, and the greatest injury wins.
Even post-race war stories count for a lot. The ongoing "rivalry" among Marc, Travis, and Eddie continued to play out today in the 10K. All talented athletes in their own right, but Travis has qualified for Olympic trials in his running. Marc and Eddie are naturally talented, but Marc's handicap is his eating, and Eddie has a propensity for slacking in training without a motivator (friend, race, or otherwise). So, when the three get together, they love to compare Buddha bellies and talk about who is "in shape". To ninety-eight percent of the American population, these guys are as fit as racing horses, but in comparison to the throttle they normally are accustomed to humming at, they may not be in top form as of late.
Of course, they all finished relatively close to each other, albeit not as close of a race as last year (and two minutes slower for Marc and Eddie), yet they still have to talk about who is the "fattest" and "slowest" when slogging along the course. They relive the highs and lows of each mile, comparing blisters and boating side stitches. They insult each other for subjecting others to their naked bodies, chests exposed in the absence of shirts on this warm February morning. They compare jelly rolls (please) and poke at love handles. Somebody please shoot me if a girlfriend ever tells me I am fatter than I was a year ago. How do they endure it?
Post run, we went to Eddie's parents' house on the river for some kayaking and paddle boarding. With conditions as they were today, paddling the board was so peaceful; I could have gotten lost out there among the spoil islands. The only sounds to be heard were the fish jumping from time to time, or the faint sound of the water as it lapped under the board. It was so calm, in fact, it almost sounded like a whisper as it swished past the board alongside me. I must be better about capturing these moments on film because my little man looked like a big kid when he took a stab at the paddle board and maneuvered his way into the urchin-crusted poles of the dock. It almost would have been funny if I weren't so stressed about him destroying Eddie's newest hobby board. There are advantages to living in a swamp when there is water all around to swim, paddle, and play in. If only I didn't worry so about the many creatures that lurk in the depths below, always certain the whisper of water under my board is a gator stalking his prey.

I love my life when I fall into bed at the end of the day, still smelling like sunscreen (despite the many hours spent swimming in the pool, and three showers since the river), throughly exhausted from the day's events. If you told me five years ago I would be paddling out to some random islands in the Intercostal in Florida, I would have said you have the wrong woman. Today, I didn't feel so bad about my swamp situation, sitting poolside with a view of the river, while the kids chirped happily among their friends. I am beat.