On Saturday I Became a Warrior

Back in January, an old friend that I haven't seen since High School announced that she wanted all her friends to do something called The Warrior Dash in honor of her upcoming 40th birthday.

Now, I'm not the least bit athletic. Oh, I like to think I am. I put on my tennis shoes, and my workout gear, and my Bob Harper DVD's, and then I do about 5 minutes of cardio and collapse on the couch and spend another 40 minutes watching Bob look at me through the television screen and yelling at me to get off my butt.

I have a totally inappropriate crush on Bob Harper.

But, anyway. Seeing that I'd spent the months from Halloween to Christmas in a total food coma, and the fact that I seem to be perpetually having some sort of mid-life crisis, I thought, "Why not?" Why not do the Warrior Dash. I'm a warrior, right? I mean, I deal with all sorts of crap on a daily basis. Surely, I can do a 5K-obstacle-course-thingamajig where you have to go through swamps and climb over rolling logs and scale net ropes and jump over fire.

Right?

Right??

And I had 4 months to get ready for it. Four months to get in fighting form and build arm muscles that would make Cameron Diaz weep and finally get one of those butts that can bounce quarters off it. Four months.

On the second day of training, I decided to jump over a small pile of leaves that our neighbor was burning. Totally burned the you-know-what out of myself. I still have a scar on my right ankle.

And, thus, ladies and gentleman, my Warrior Dash training officially ended.

But I'd already paid my 50 dollar registration fee and I wasn't about to back out. And sure, I cried myself to sleep last Friday night and had a panic attack that could rival the time I didn't do a lick of work on my oral presentation of Tess of the D'ubervilles in 12th grade English and I completely made up, on the spot, some sort of gibberish in a ridiculously phony accent that would've had my father-in-law calling the police on me for destroying the English language....and well, you know what....

I still did okay.

And, you know what? I did just fine at the Warrior Dash.

I didn't come in first.

I didn't come in last.

I walked the whole dang thing.

But it wasn't about that. It was about catching up with old friends and celebrating the fact that we're all still here to celebrate a friend's 40th birthday. It can't get better than that.

Here are some pictures from the day....

Hanging with some of my peeps, Bethany and Tristan. We all carpooled together. I don't have the pictures of the birthday girl back yet.

A picture of our shirts with our nicknames on the back. Yes, mine says "White Knuckles". It was given to me by an old Native American guide who, I thought was going to have to call in a helicopter to carry me out of Mesa Verde back in 1995. I was literally paralyzed with fear and stuck on a vertical ladder for what seemed like eternity. Finally, about 4 men had to push me up while others pulled me up.

Ya'll, I have never in my life had so many men's hands on my derriere at the same time. Sigh. Good times.

Lol. Kidding!!! You know I totally did the oogy dance as soon as I pulled to safety.

My shoe with my tracker on it that says "Free Beer". We all got free beer, a Viking helmet, a medal, and T-Shirt that says "I survived the Warrior Dash". For the record, I did not use my free beer ticket. Because I do not drink.

You Orlando Trauma Mama's keep your mouths firmly shut, you hear me??

But, no. I did not use my beer ticket. I did not eat a turkey leg. I did not pass go. I hosed off and drove straight to the nearest Chik-Fil-A and dreamt about taking a shower. (For the record, it took 2 showers, 3 hair washings, and 4 washing machine washes to get all the mud out of my hair and clothes.)

This is the three of us after the race. Obviously, Tristan and Bethany aren't true warriors and must've tip-toed through the whole thing. Either that, or they don't have coordination challenges like I do. I gloriously made out with the mud several times.

Don't want to take your muddy shoes with you? Want to help out people in need? Then donate the sneakers you wore in the race!

Because poor people really need smelly, nasty, muddy shoes!

Kidding. It was for a great cause. But I'd sure hate to be the person who had to wash all those shoes off.

Now, the best part, in my opinion, was the people watching. Because where else, except for 12th century Scotland, do you get to see men wondering around in kilts.... and nothing else.... you catch my drift? Or should I say draft.

Oh, I crack myself up.

And this fine idiot, er, I mean, fellow, must've thought to himself... "Oooh, rope courses! Cargo nets! Hay bales! Straddling rolling logs! Why, I think I'll do all that in a jock strap!"

I'm being completely serious. A little gust of wind proved our suspicions.

Ya'll, you couldn't pay me enough to be the ER doctor who had to remove all the splinters from his yoohoo. Seriously.

And this, my friends, is the piece de resistance.

This is why I'm definitely signing up for next year.

Because even though my work-out consists of lifting my hand from the salsa bowl to my lips while beautiful Bob screams at me through my television set..... and even though I've had 9 Caramel Frappes from McDonald's in the last 3 weeks.... and even though I will probably never ever ever ever lose those last 5 lbs....

I am pretty darn sure that I can fill out a Hooter's costume better than this guy....

See you next year!