TROLLEY TROLLOP: JOGGA WHAT? JOGGA WHO?

DAMMIT! I can’t believe it! I missed the deadline to register for the Boston Marathon. AGAIN!

Guess my life of sloth, cigarettes and booze and the consequent hacking and pallid skin tone will just have to continue uninterrupted.

Bummer…(hack)…(wheeze)…(sip)…and junk.

All Most Some joking aside, I’ve always been wildly jealous of all those skinny bastards with the calves that look like they could crush your larynx should they even flex slightly. In fact, last year as I was four screwdrivers in at a bar along the route, I (slightly) remember thinking “I wish I could do that.”

And then I ordered a Jagerbomb and drunkdialed my mom.

But now with the marathon creeping up on us again, my jealousy is quickly turning into annoyance. Suddenly every time I go outside, I’m bombarded by joggers. They’re everywhere. Barrelling toward me on the street. Running in place beside me at the crosswalk. Coming up from behind yelling things like “On your right!”, which since I’m directionally dyslexic almost always ends with me also going to my right and them telling me rather loudly that I am:

1. A moron.

2. A dumbass.

3. Something in a foreign language that sounds wicked harsh.

You can’t drunkenly swing a microbrew in Boston anymore without hitting some sweaty dude dressed head to toe in Nike Dri-FIT and wearing ironically big headphones.

With only five weeks to go, it’s like everyone is cramming before the big test. Which, if we continue with that high school metaphor, makes me the juvenile delinquent skipping class to go smoke in the bathroom. And if we don’t go with the high school metaphor, makes me the schmuck in a sea of athletes that is walking around in yoga pants, not because I just came from yoga class or am planning on doing yoga anytime in the foreseeable future, but because their elastic band makes them my least judgemental pants.

And the worst part is that I used to be like those runners. I was a high school athlete. In college, I went to the gym all the time.

Before my wedding, I worked out until I had an ass that, while you couldn’t bounce a quarter off it, could take a bouncy ball pretty far, if I do say so myself.

But I’ve gotten lazy in my old age. My idea of exercise now is a pub crawl.

So, when I see these hard-core chicks running in a sports bra and leggings that look like they have been painted on, I am constantly reminded just how unhealthy I have become. And how far away my body is from being able to wear just a sports bra and leggings without scaring children and the elderly.

In other words, I do NOT appreciate these runners jamming their lifestyle choices down my throat.

And sure, while maybe someday I’ll finally get my shit together and actually try to qualify for the marathon, I for one, will be glad when the race is finally over this year so Bostonians can get back to doing what we do best:

Coming up with never-ending reasons to daydrink and hating tourists.