My Bucket List Can Suck It

Turning 40 was a big deal for me. I reviewed my past years and deemed most of them worthless in terms of personal achievements or accomplishing anything just for ME. I had been a SAHM for about 8 years, and prior to that, worked at jobs I hated. This translated to, “Who the hell am I anymore?”

I was ready for something. I just didn’t know what. I had a sad little bucket list that included activities like going out for dim sum. Usually I added to the list AFTER I had done something, simply for the joy of crossing it off.

I had a group of girlfriends I would shoot the shit with over lemon drop cocktails, espresso and chocolate croissants, not necessarily in that order. One tipsy evening we started discussing goals and bucket lists. Turns out I wasn’t alone in my quest to add a goal. My friends and I landed on the idea of running a 5K together. We were all turning 40 and we wanted it to be memorable.

“Fuck that shit, a 5K is for pussies,” I announced as my lemon drop sloshed over on the table. “Let’s do a full marathon.”

A full fucking 26.2 mile marathon to be exact.

Bear in mind, the closest thing I had ever gotten to a marathon was that time in 4th grade at my school’s jog-a-thon. I think I made two laps around the school gym before calling it good.

I realize listing a marathon on a bucket list is a far cry from swimming with dolphins or throwing a dart at a map and traveling wherever it lands. However, for a girl who counted passing Geology in college a success, I considered this a big deal.

We all drunkenly clinked glasses to make it official.

We had 10 months to train and so began what would be the hardest physical endeavor I have ever attempted. Nevertheless, I had agreed to it and I wasn’t planning on being the loser who dropped out.

Our training increased each week as we added miles. It wasn’t long before we were meeting at 6am and training until 2 pm in 90 degree weather. We all dropped weight and built calf muscles and toned arms like bad asses. We fueled ourselves with that shitty, gooey electrolyte gel and peanut M&Ms. We cried, we laughed, we told jokes about anal sex, let out some of our deepest secrets and shared our marital woes. Somewhere along the line, as a result of being in the trenches together for hours at a time, we formed an inexplicable bond of determination and friendship.

If shitting dicks were an actual thing, I was doing it at 4:30am the morning of the marathon. I was terrified. What if my shoes gave out? What if I hurt myself? What if I couldn’t keep up?

Unfortunately my fears were valid, since every one of them happened. The chafing on my lady parts gave me the Brazilian I never wanted. I had blisters the size of golf balls on my heels, my boobs developed some sort of yeast infection from all the sweating, and the smell emanating from my ass was nothing short of nuclear.

Yet I finished and crossed the finish line hand in hand with the girls that had turned into my family. We hugged, downed a shot and accepted our medals with pride. Then I vomited.

I promptly ripped up my bucket list (after crossing off my marathon, of course), and threw it in the trash. I decided rather than focusing solely on goals and the future, I should embrace the present. I had lost the beauty of living in the moment because I developed tunnel vision for one thing only, a stupid marathon.

My advice? If you decide to make a bucket list, make sure you have some damn good ideas on there. Keep it to things you would not only enjoy, but doesn’t require a lot of work.

Like swimming with dolphins or going out for dim sum.