Summer Social Season
Lately it seems like I have been trying to fit my running and the marathon clinic in and around that other punishing endurance sport, the summer social season. The days are longer but somehow the hours seem shorter. Family comes in from out of town, expects to see you, friends want to spend some time lounging at the beach or around a backyard barbeque, and after all, Vince, it's not like you have a nine to five job these days...
The self-imposed alcohol prohibition wears a little thin on those days when the sun sets long over the patio decks. Fortunately for me, the rainy summer we have had up until the last week or so in Vancouver has made it easy to be self-disciplined. No need to bask in the last rays of the sun when the sun isn't shining. Mondays to Fridays, the diet is relatively easy to follow and I can always beg off the buffets to go for my runs on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.
And the Sunday long run, well, the Sunday long run is in a league all it's own when it comes to proffering explanations for strange, slightly anti-social behavior at the height of the summer social season. Nothing quite like saying you're going to be running for three or four hours the next morning to let you get away with murder or its Emily Post equivalent. It's like an adult hall pass to let one come and go as you please with the full weight and blessings of the High Priests of Etiquette behind you. Better yet, the phrase "I'm trying to qualify for Boston next year..." is like uttering a secret code to the various Hosts and Hostesses who have tried to indulge me in my every decadent appetite.
I merely have to mutter, "Boston, you know..." as I demure on accepting a tasty looking beverage or a plate piled high with delicacies, and off they run to the kitchen and whip me up some special designer low-cal, low-fat concoction that often times surpasses what the rest of the guests are imbibing or nibbling. "Boston, you know..."
Boston is also a password that allows me to leave parties early, so I can get a good nights sleep, "Boston, you know..." or arrive fashionably late and make a grand entrance JUST in time for the food because I have been out training, "Boston, you know..." And the Host and Hostess cluck and nod their heads sympathetically and then scurry into the kitchen or off to the barbeque to whip me up something special. "Listen, I can quickly grill you up a steak instead of one of these burgers.... No, honestly, it's NO trouble!" "Vince, you HAVE to try this wine - Boston, you know... - Let me set aside a bottle for you to take home.
And now that I am down to 190 or so pounds, I have lost enough weight in the past month so that folks I haven't seen in a while immediately launch into peals of, "Vince, you look great..., The training is really paying off! Can I get you something special?" And off course I thank them and accept their praise and say, "Boston, you know... please, don't go to any trouble on my account.", as I cram another specially prepared delicacy into my ravenous maw, seafood platters, a perfect steak, a succulent fruit salad with a little sorbet on the side. It was never so easy to be so healthy. "Boston, you know..."
The self-imposed alcohol prohibition wears a little thin on those days when the sun sets long over the patio decks. Fortunately for me, the rainy summer we have had up until the last week or so in Vancouver has made it easy to be self-disciplined. No need to bask in the last rays of the sun when the sun isn't shining. Mondays to Fridays, the diet is relatively easy to follow and I can always beg off the buffets to go for my runs on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays.
And the Sunday long run, well, the Sunday long run is in a league all it's own when it comes to proffering explanations for strange, slightly anti-social behavior at the height of the summer social season. Nothing quite like saying you're going to be running for three or four hours the next morning to let you get away with murder or its Emily Post equivalent. It's like an adult hall pass to let one come and go as you please with the full weight and blessings of the High Priests of Etiquette behind you. Better yet, the phrase "I'm trying to qualify for Boston next year..." is like uttering a secret code to the various Hosts and Hostesses who have tried to indulge me in my every decadent appetite.
I merely have to mutter, "Boston, you know..." as I demure on accepting a tasty looking beverage or a plate piled high with delicacies, and off they run to the kitchen and whip me up some special designer low-cal, low-fat concoction that often times surpasses what the rest of the guests are imbibing or nibbling. "Boston, you know..."
Boston is also a password that allows me to leave parties early, so I can get a good nights sleep, "Boston, you know..." or arrive fashionably late and make a grand entrance JUST in time for the food because I have been out training, "Boston, you know..." And the Host and Hostess cluck and nod their heads sympathetically and then scurry into the kitchen or off to the barbeque to whip me up something special. "Listen, I can quickly grill you up a steak instead of one of these burgers.... No, honestly, it's NO trouble!" "Vince, you HAVE to try this wine - Boston, you know... - Let me set aside a bottle for you to take home.
And now that I am down to 190 or so pounds, I have lost enough weight in the past month so that folks I haven't seen in a while immediately launch into peals of, "Vince, you look great..., The training is really paying off! Can I get you something special?" And off course I thank them and accept their praise and say, "Boston, you know... please, don't go to any trouble on my account.", as I cram another specially prepared delicacy into my ravenous maw, seafood platters, a perfect steak, a succulent fruit salad with a little sorbet on the side. It was never so easy to be so healthy. "Boston, you know..."
posted by Vince Hemingson at 8:09 AM
1 Comments:
Vince,
You slime. You've figured out how to get special treatment for having FAILED to qualify for Boston. I admire that. It's almost as devious as crashing weddings to pick up women, like in that movie with Vince...Hey, I'm detecting a pattern here!
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