Opinion: Rooting for hubby — not
Commentary by Danielle Wilson
I won’t lie. I’m extremely nervous right now. My husband Doo made me sign up for a stupid triathlon, and while it seemed like a great idea back in January, with the race just hours away, I feel like my bowels are in full revolt. And the weird thing is, this is not my first one. Nor my second. So why is my adrenaline kicking in like I woke up to a zombie apocalypse?
For sure, some of the nerves can be attributed to my competitive nature. I told Doo several years ago that he will never beat me because, unlike him, I am willing to die before I lose to someone I shouldn’t. I’m not kidding. I call it “athletic brinkmanship,” and I am deeply committed to its tactics. Blister? Ignore it. Dehydrated? Keep going. Signs of heat stroke? Suck. It. Up. Triathlons in particular are as much a mental game as physical, and compared to moms, men simply can’t get close. Advantage, me. And my man only recently gave up smoking and became a “runner,” which means unless I am struck down with a stomach bug, he’s not going to finish ahead of me (actually, that happened once and I still beat him!).
But he’s been training hard, ran a marathon in the fall and is a much better biker than me. I hate to admit it, but I think he has a chance today. And I don’t really want to die, especially not in a swim suit/bike short hybrid. So now the question is, if Doo can do it today, can I rise above my arrogance and smack talk and truly be happy for all that he’s accomplished? Can I be the gracious good loser and celebrate his success? I like to think I can, but I’m not entirely positive. And that has me worried. Much more than running this stupid triathlon.
Ugh. I need a toilet. Peace out.