“ So how far is he running?”
“ A marathon”
“ Good. One of his job description is to be physically fit”
“ So how far are you running?”
“ Half marathon”
“ How far is that?”
“ More than 10 Ks or so. I dunno. I forgot”
And before you can say liar, liar, pants on fire, I was out the door.
I don’t mean to lie to my dad. It just that, no matter how old I am, or no matter how healthy I seem, I am etched in his mind as that asthmatic little girl who lands herself in the ER at least 4 times a year for Oxygen treatment. Even though I haven’t had any attack in say what? Ages.
If I told him before going, the actual mileage, it’s not like he’ll forbid me from going, it’s more like he’ll voice out his disapproval and I’m left with the guilty feeling of going, nevertheless. Oh you know that feeling with parents.
But I’m not hiding it all together. I’ll tell him after I’ve completed the race. My father has always been the ‘you-do-it-first-and-if-all-comes-out-good-in-the-end-then-it’s-okay” type of father (there’s a mouthful). It’s like the time I went to my first rock concert. If I’d told him beforehand, he would pitch a fit. But following my older sister’s advice, I was like “ By the way, Dad, I went to a concert last Friday” and all he said was “ Best ke?”.
But I know he is proud of me. After I finished my first road race, which was only 6K, he was all smiles and praises. I guess he would never have guessed his mandom little kid would turn out to be a runner. It’s like a cosmic joke.
So, I’m dedicating this half marathon to my Dad, and Mom whether I can finish it or not.
Hey, at least I’m willing to try.