January 20, 2015

Memory. For many years, my best friend in the whole wide world never remembered my birthday. He was always doing something football related. The day would come. Someone would eventually remind me that it was my birthday. I would spend the rest of the day (not) celebrating. And the day would end. Like clockwork, two days later he’d call and wish me a happy birthday as if I in fact, was born on the 20^th of my birth month. Funny. He was born on this day, the 20^th, the first month of the year.

Now that we’re older and grown(er), he calls on my birthday. I hear my beautiful goddaughters with their Happy Birthday GodMother! shouts. Then he gets on the phone and we talk. He usually has some inappropriate birthday wish for me. I chuckle uncontrollably. Then we end the conversation. Without saying it, we thank the Lord for another year we’ve been blessed with, and being able to be the same old us.

Memory. You know, I started this blogging ish because of something I wrote. It wasn’t on purpose at all. I did not get that medal in Las Vegas after I finished my first half marathon. So, I wrote the Competitor Group a letter. I shared it with Alicia maKeykey. She could not believe it. I added it to that thing I called a book. Then she made me read it aloud to people like Carrie Bradshaw. And, it became my very first blog post on these here internets.

But when you read about it, or see it mentioned in my hashtags, it just seems like all the other races. The good, the bad breathing while running, the AWESOME playlist, the crazy runners around me, the finish…everything except the medal. And mostly, that’s true. But this race was unlike any other race for a couple of reasons:

It was my very first half marathon.

My best friend was with me the whole time.

Memory. I remember this race experience so many different ways. This race experience will always be that way, because he was part of it. From ending…

The first man I ever said “I love you” to was my father. He gave me life, and I repaid him with love. And because we love each other, we never take advantage of everything it means. We speak our truths and our “I love you’s.”

The second man I ever said “I love you” to was my best friend. It was not planned. I wasn’t exactly the emotional type back then, so it surprised me when I said it. I was probably more shocked that after I said it, I didn’t even think about taking it back. Hold up... I meant it? Well damn, I sure did. I didn’t feel uneasy, or awkward. I felt free. Like I finally repaid that $10 I didn’t want to borrow, or returned that book I used last quarter. He looked up at me and told me he loved me too. We exchanged love like Monday Night Football highlights. We got each other up to speed on the catches and missed tackles, then went on to the next discussion topic.

We never talk about that day. We don’t ever need too. We know what we are to each other, and that is enough. I was there to make sure he believed in love, so until he finds love, he has me. And he was there to share my life with – and until I find someone to share it with, he’ll be the one at the finish line in all my competitions. And he was.

In 2011 I ran (or something like it) a half marathon in Las Vegas. On the strip. At night. Strip At Night. I was too busy drowning in my sorrows to see how proud of me he was. To see me being all the things he knew me to be, when all I could see was what I wasn’t. Those damn “nots” – they are so binding. That’s the thing about him. How he sees me. I’m not the sum of my “nots”…as I tend to see myself. If you were to ask me what I was, I’d tell you all that I wasn’t. Ask him though… To him I’m not a sum of my nots… He doesn’t see what I lack, for all that I am. I’m intelligent. A great cook. An artist. A prolific writer. A loving person. I’m going to be a great mother, he says. I’m an awesome sister. I make my parents proud. Oh, I’m brave, confident, fearless.

He didn’t deserve what he took for me, on my behalf that day, and I don’t deserve him still. He walked with me step by step as my corral migrated to the front smiling the entire time, he celebrated my finish before I could even see my start, he watched me jump the road blocks as my corral left me while I was waiting for the bathroom, and most importantly he photographed me at the completion of 13.1 medal-less miles so I would never forget how incredibly defeated and depleted I looked at the end. I stood – barely – in the lobby of the MGM Grand and thought about my life and the decisions I made which led me to that place that particular day. I would have cried, but losing any more liquid in the moment would have literally ended me. And when I couldn’t take another step, he made footprints for the both of us.

Crossing the finish line I still didn’t see it. How many people do I actually know, run in distance races, let alone half marathons? Oh man, he was sick (and tired) of what I became, but he never showed his frustration, not once. He made me sit, in the car, the passenger seat, at McCarran Airport and hear about this really wonderful person he knew. She was intelligent, one of the smartest people he knew, kind, pretty, and dammit, one hell of a woman. He said she would find what she was looking for, but she had to start being person she was supposed to be. I could tell he wanted to be frustrated; I think becoming a father helped teach him how not to be. Tab played professional football, and he had not competed the way I did. I did something athletic that he would probably never do, and that was amazing to him. That made him proud, and he couldn’t understand how I could make it so small, so tiny, so forgettable.

Memory. I always remember his birthday. It’s today. He’s a year older, wiser, braver, and funnier. I’m a year luckier.

There are so many wishes that I have for my best friend on his birthday. But I dare not speak them. I do, however, pray that I am everything I need to be for him when he walks into them all. He's going to have everything I ever did hope for him...and then some.

Happy Birthday.