Me: One overweight, undertrained, overambitious, underprepared girl.
It: 1/2 mile swim; 12 mile bike, 3.1 mile jog (in my case, slow amble.)
And oh my God. It's this Sunday.
What. Was. I. Thinking?
And now I'm... terrified is probably a good word. Another appropriate phrase might be "scared shitless." Also: losing my mind. And trying not to completely melt down?
So what if I had a moment of kick-ass girl power when I thought I was strong and could handle it? That was before. But now it's here.
And I'm obsessing about everything.
What will I eat between now and then? What will my race day breakfast be? (Tentative plan: whole wheat bagel with peanut butter and a banana.) I'm mired in the logistics of getting a rental car. What time do I pick it up so I can get to Wisconsin in time for the mandatory orientation on Saturday, and get back to Chicago with enough time to spare on Sunday before my 24-hour window is up? Will I have a safe and dry place to stash my camera so I can at least have a picture to remember the day and offer visual proof to the world that I didn't chicken out and show up? What about a little iPod, so I am not alone in my head for the 2.5 hours I suspect this thing will take me? Will I feel like a big, jiggly giant among the tiny, svelte muscley tri chicks? Should I put on sunblock? What if I forget sunblock? What if I get skin cancer? Can I find some way to get my goggles to quit leaking and quit fogging over? What if it rains? What if I get kicked in the face during the swim? What if I get some weird pond fungus? What if I fall on my bike? WHAT IF I'M THE LAST ONE TO FINISH?
I'd be lying if I didn't secretly wish for some kind of freak accident that causes me to sprain an ankle between now and then. Sure, I'd also be really disappointed in myself that happened. But whatever. It just seems like such a less horrifying option. (It's like that time in 9th grade, when I was convinced my football-playing crush would ask me to homecoming and instead he asked someone else, and I was left going to the dance with a date who asked me if semi-formal meant his jeans were Ok. And then I wished I had appendicitis, so I wouldn't have to go, even though I had a dress, which I was sure at the time made me look stunning enough to exact retribution on the football player who, despite asking me out on my first date, NEVER SPOKE TO ME AGAIN. Ok. Or maybe it's not like that. But ... )
Whatever. I'm not rational. I'm petrified. I'm going to do it. I think I can do it. I want to do it. But oh my God. And it's only Monday.