Adding insult to injury, the race organizers write all these numbers on your body with permanent marker, including your age by the end of the year. So the whole week after the race, I could easily cover the race number on my arms and legs- though admittedly, there were a few situations where I did kind of show them off- but the one number that was pretty obvious no matter what I wore (remember, it's still summer in Texas) was my age which was written in big black Sharpie in a not-so-discreet location on the back of my calf.
Many of my friends and I agree that 35 is one of those scary ages. There are not that many more years that I think I'll want to run a triathlon. I'm as close to 40 now as I am to 30. Society at large keeps shoving the urgent need for reproduction in my face. Yet in spite of that, and in spite of my recent frustrating foray into something I'd hoped would feel inspiring, I'm still going to keep my commitment to optimism regardless of foiled plans and my big scary age staring back at me from behind my calf. My daughter and I discovered this Bruno Mars ditty about not giving up the other day via You Tube and at the risk of looking like a total tool for two Sesame Street references in such a short time span, I'm including it here. Growing up is hard, after all, and if the march of time doesn't slowly free us from our inhibitions and challenge us to accomplish new things, what's the point? 