Last Saturday, I had the privilege of attending a fantastic funeral.
When is the last time you heard that?
My friend Jack died the previous week. A heart attack killed him, and he was only 58 years old. Yes, I'm at the age when my friends die of natural causes. That's enough to make a girl stand up and take notice, for sure.
The service itself was incredible; a fitting tribute to a man who could wear a Viking helmet while playing the ukulele and make it seem completely ... well ... not normal, per se, but certainly appropriate. We laughed. We cried. The funeral director even took to the microphone at one point to proclaim this the most fun she'd ever had at work. No, I am not surprised.
Following the service, at Jack's request, we all walked New Orleans-style to the Riverfront Playhouse to celebrate his life. We strolled behind the hearse and the band. Yep; band. There can be no more enjoyable way to say goodbye, for sure. As we all gathered at the Playhouse, we ate, drank, talked and reconnected. There were a few tears, but mostly it was just a day for everyone to reflect and remember. It was powerful.
I headed home in mid-afternoon, knowing I had a six-mile run on the schedule. Now, at this point it was about 3:30 and I was full of pizza, barbecue and cheap red wine. I was tired and emotionally drained, so I did what any runner would do: I laid down.
And I did not feel like I could get up.
I napped for an hour or so. I talked myself completely out of running. I didn't want to go; what's more, I didn't feel like I had six miles him me. But, knowing that my plan might need to be adjusted this week, with the big Hawaii trip on the horizon, I knew that if I gave myself a pass now the whole damn thing could derail.
So I got out of bed, suited up, and hit the trail. It was a great run.
There's something about accomplishing something you don't think you can do that just feels awesome. When I was done, I was tired and I was sore, but I was also a damn rockstar. That's success.
A few days later, I weighed in: 213.2. Whatever. I want the scale to move; I hope the increase in my mileage will help make that happen. If not, I am just going to let it be okay. I can't let my entire focus be my weight, so I'm just going to be the healthiest 213-pound woman I know, until the scale begins trending downward.