tuesday mood

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Hi!

Listen, it’s fine.

Everything’s gonna be fine.

I’m surprised at how calm I feel today. Sure, I’m aware that in many ways our democracy hangs in the balance. Sure, I know that a lot of my loved ones could lose their rights, their health care, their jobs, their citizenship, even their humanity if this thing goes sideways. But you know what? I’m not freaking out. I’m not anxious. I really think it’s gonna be fine.

I’m fine.

It’s fine.

It’s like, wow, you know! I did not expect to feel so INCREDIBLY FINE right now!

What will be, will be, right?

It is what it is!

I accept without judgment the order of the universe.

God granted me the serenity of the first thingy, and the courage for the second thingy, and the wisdom to know the difference, and I am LOVIN IT.

I have faith in humanity and also in the outcome of this election. I think it’s going to be fine. No, actually, I KNOW it’s going to be fine!

The moral arc of the universe is long but it bends toward—

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME

AT MILE 16?!?!?!

YOU, SIR,

ARE A SELFISH BASTARD PIG BEAST.

Listen, I ran a marathon in 2010 and it was one of the most affirming experiences of my life. In order to run a a marathon, do you know what you have to do?

  1. Decide to do a thing that’s going to be 90% not fun, 10% ecstasy.

  2. Make a plan to train for the thing. Look at your calendar. Schedule your runs. Protect that time to do something 90% not fun. For months.

  3. Show up today to run the number of miles you’ve planned to run that day.

  4. Show up again. For months.

  5. Learn about which foods and drinks are best to fuel your body as it attempts this heroic effort. Choose those foods and drinks, even if you want a goddamn bottle of Chardonnay and a pizza instead.

  6. Pass on happy hour with your friends because you have to do 12 miles tomorrow and you know you’ll be fucked if you don’t get 8 hours, or if you’re hung over.

  7. Set your alarm on Saturdays. (Remember, you chose this!)

  8. BTW do you know how long it takes to do those later training runs? Hours. It takes hooooours. Hours you could have spent reading, writing, seeing movies, visiting friends, volunteering, taking a class, cleaning your house, having sex, NOT RUNNING. But you do it anyway.

  9. Show up on the day of the run and run more than you’ve ever run before in your life.

  10. Remember that no matter how many miles you’ve run, every mile still requires the same number of steps, and you do them, every single step, all the way to the finish line.

  11. Get a goddamn medal, a banana, and a foil blanket.

  12. Feel incredibly proud of yourself. You have integrity. You did a thing that took months of committed exertion. You did a thing that probably hurt. You did a thing that was boring sometimes. You did it anyway.


If my bf had hopped a fence to propose to me on mile 16, you know what I would have done? Exactly what she did. Smile, hug him, say yes, finish the race. I would have been happy! He did a nice thing. I’m supposed to be happy. Happy, happy, happy. Fine, fine, fine. THIS IS THE GOOD PLACE, RIGHT?

But I would have been a lot of other things, too. I would have been a little sad, a little disappointed that my thing had been appropriated by his grand romantic gesture, that he felt like he had the right to push me aside and take control of the ship I spent months building: “You thought this day was going to be about your integrity, but SURPRISE, it’s actually about my thoughtfulness. YOU’RE WELCOME.”

I would have known, deep down, that he fucking did it wrong, and he didn’t get why he did it wrong, and that would have been a big ass mondo bummer.

I would have felt wracked with guilt that his grand romantic gesture, the stuff of problematic rom-coms, wasn’t respectful enough of my time and effort. I would have felt snobby and ungrateful that the world and CBS believed our story was heartwarming, but the way he asked me to be his wife really hurt my feelings, actually. I would have assumed something was wrong with me. Then, I would have felt angry with him for proposing to me in a way that made me feel guilty and ungrateful and broken, and then I would have felt even more guilt about that anger about the proposal.

The 10 remaining miles wouldn’t have been nearly enough distance to work out that Gordian knot of feels.


This isn’t just about the day of the race, dude. This is about you recognizing that it took her months of physical and emotional work to get herself to a place where this race was runnable. It was hard. It was really fucking hard and she earned this day.

This is about you taking a goddamn step back, and questioning your fucking instincts. I can practically hear your thought process on this. “You know what would make this culmination of months of her individual hard work, strength, athleticism, sacrifice, and commitment even better? ME.”

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And you know what really curdles my yogurt? You know he fucking bounced this idea off some people. You know this conversation happened at LEAST once in the days leading up to the race:

Chad: I’m gonna propose to her at the marathon.

Dude: Really? Awesome! I’m so happy for you. She’s really great. I’ll be there with a camera at the finish line, man.

Chad: No, dude. I’m gonna do it at mile 16.

Dude:

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CHAD. YA FRIENDS? THEY SUCK. THE WORLD IS FULL OF MEN WHO LIKE YOU AND HATE WOMEN AND CANNOT BE TRUSTED TO GIVE YOU GOOD ROMANTIC ADVICE. Can’t tell you how many bros on Twitter were like, “Whatever, it’s not like she was gonna WIN the marathon.”

NOT THE POINT, SEAMUS McBUTTFACE. NOT THE GODDAMN POINT AT ALL. Not like you’re gonna win the Douchebag Olympics, but that’s not stopping you from putting 110% into the effort, now is it?

GET SOME FUCKING GROWN-ASS FEMINIST MEN FRIENDS WHO WILL CHECK YOU ON THAT SHIT.

After the race, Chad took her to brunch and probably ate the first bite of her goddamn omelet too. He probably put ketchup on it instead of hot sauce. SO THOUGHTFUL because he likes ketchup EXCEPT NOT because she likes vinegary hot sauce so he just took a sweet tomato dump all over her celebratory eggs.

And then they went home and she hopped in the shower, and he popped his head in to say I love you and was like, “Woah this water’s too hot!” and turned the shower temperature down about 7 degrees to HIS FAVORITE TEMPERATURE. SO THOUGHTFUL SO SHE WASN’T TOO HOT except NOT BECAUSE NOW SHE’S SHIVERING.

FOR FUCK’S SAKE LET HER DO HER THING.

SOMETIMES WE JUST WANT YOU TO STAND ON THE SIDELINES AND CLAP WHILE WE DO SOMETHING AMAZING.

SOMETIMES WE DON’T NEED YOU TO MAKE OUR AMAZING SHIT MORE AMAZING. That you believe our amazing shit needs to be made more amazing and that you’re the King of Amazing here to help us up our Amazing Game? That actually sucks. Don’t do that.

SOMETIMES WE NEED YOU TO SUPPORT US WITHOUT MAKING IT ABOUT YOU— You looking romantic. You getting social media approval from Seamus McButtface, who is too basic to ever medal in the Douchebag Olympics but who is going to die trying anyway. You looking like a real goddamn catch except to all the people who have ever run a marathon who are like,

“Are you a fucking child?

GET THE FUCK OUT OF HER WAY.”

LET HER RUN.

LET HER RUN.

PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST GET OUT OF HER WAY AND LET HER DO SOMETHING ASTOUNDING! ACCEPT THAT HER ASTOUNDING ACHIEVEMENT TAKES LITERALLY NOTHING FROM YOU. SUPPORTING WOMEN COSTS YOU FUCKING NOTHING! NOTHING!

NOTHING!!!!!!

LET US JUST DRIVE OUR OWN LIVES, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! THE ENTIRE COUNTRY CAN TAKE A STEP TOWARD PEACE IF WE LET WOMEN EXIST AND SUCCEED WITHOUT INTERRUPTING THEIR VICTORIES WITH YOUR NEED TO TAKE OVER FUCKING EVERYTHING IN ORDER TO GET VALIDATION THAT YOUR NEEDS WILL ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS COME FIRST NO MATTER HOW HARD WE’VE WORKED OR HOW MUCH WE’VE SACRIFICED OR—

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This post may not be about the marathon proposal.

Now, I stand by everything I said about Chad’s urgent need to interrogate his instincts to insert himself into her personal victories. I also encourage him to get a friend in his life who will have this conversation with him:

Chad: I’m gonna propose to her at the marathon.

Dude: Really? Awesome! I’m so happy for you. She’s really great. I’ll be there with a camera at the finish line, man.

Chad: No, dude. I’m gonna do it at mile 16. Awesome, ri—

Dude:

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  let her RUN HER RACE

let
her
RUN
HER
RACE

Chad: Or, no, you’re right, the finish line’s good.

This was a thoughtless and somewhat childish romantic gesture, more about the idea of what a romantic proposal is supposed to look like than an actual gesture of love and respect for the woman with whom you hope to spend the rest of your life.

But yeah. I mean. I didn’t need to write like a whole post about it.

And really, turns out, I didn’t.


OK, so I need you to vote.

It’s okay to be freaked out today and recognize that while you HAVE A POINT, you might also have slightly overdeveloped emotional responses to things you see on Twitter. I am a human pimple today, trembling on the chin of America.

I accept it, own it, and while I don’t walk away from my baker’s dozen of TOTALLY FUCKING LEGIT POINTS, I also remember that I could be melting cheese on bread instead.

And best wishes to the happy couple!


If you liked this post, patronize me!

Wait, that came out wrong… what I mean to say is, if you pay me for my work you can patronize me all you want! Wait, shit.

What I was trying to say was, if you become a patron via Patreon or send a virtual fist-bump through PayPal, you can tell me to “smile,” and explain blogging to me and I’ll say “Wow thank you such a good point!”

Wait, is that right?

Fuck it, it’s election day.

Everyone go melt cheese on something and eat it without really tasting.

And enjoy this video of guys who know when to stay the fuck out of her way until she’s done rocking their fucking socks off:

 seriously wish some clueless guy had tried to propose to her as she stood up so she could drop that shit on his head and be like SHIT MIKE I TOLD YOU NOT WHILE I’M CRUSHING IT

seriously wish some clueless guy had tried to propose to her as she stood up so she could drop that shit on his head and be like SHIT MIKE I TOLD YOU NOT WHILE I’M CRUSHING IT