There are so many races going on every minute of every day.  Sal and I race to the liquor cabinet to see who can grab the vodka bottle for our martini first.  She usually wins because she likes alcohol more than I do.  But, there are bigger races going on all around us.  There are probably hundreds of ‘races for the cure.’  I think they need to slow down a bit to find the cure, because they could run right over the damn thing, missing it altogether!  And, what IS ‘the cure.’  Back in the olden days, it was alcohol...not that my intention is to keep focusing on alcohol, but if there was something wrong with you in 1824, they gave you whiskey...lots of whiskey, so why wouldn’t you feel better after that cure?

With this whole genome thing going on, they really are discovering how to keep us all alive until we’re 150!  Please raise your cyber hand if you want to live to be 150.  See?  It’s a toss up. It might be fine to live to be 150 if the earth would still be balanced and beautiful, but that’s not going to happen.  We’re racing to f**k it up as fast as we can...an amazing race for sure. 

I think most people assume that a freeway was constructed for racing.  Why, the signs even say, “Slow traffic keep right.”  Because I dislike freeways, I always keep right, and my speed is in direct relationship to how much longer I wish to live.  The people who are in the left lane going 90 mph are all racing each other to see who can get to the movies before the previews are over, I guess.  Some make it, some wind up in that ‘balcony’ upstairs having to watch God movies all day long.

I say, slow down, but I probably say that because I’m in my fifties.  If I were a young’un, I’d be saying, “Get the hell out of my way!  I don’t have TIME to smell the roses.  I’m on my way to wherever, and I’m late!”  Bless their hearts.  We’re AT wherever, and the water is fine.  No one is in a hurry at our age.  Hurrying causes unnecessary bruising.  We’re all chillin, seeing the trees in the forest and watching curling in the Olympics.  We deserve it, don’t we?  Sal wants me to try out for The Amazing Race with her.  I say, “In these shoes, I don’t think so!”

KK

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God, talk about the metaphor for life.  Because, it really is an amazing race.  It’s a race for fame and fortune.  For some it’s a race for family and a steady job.  For others it’s a race for enough money to buy fake boobs or star in a Girls Gone Wild episode.

There are philanthropists out there who use their time to help others.  They race to New Orleans to help the survivors of Katrina, or to Haiti with planes full of medicines and food.  Those are the really good, valuable people of the world.  I’m not one of them.

It seems my path in the race is to lay back for the marathon.  Stamina.  That’s what it’s all about for me.  I’m not a sprinter.  I will come up from behind at the last lap and pass all the other runners who are panting and fainting from their haste and refusal to grab a bottle of water from a bystander they passed.  I, on the other hand, much like the turtle, stopped to sip a margarita in order to enjoy the view as I lope along like an old mare in the pasture of life.  I laugh as the other racers pass me by and smirk at my folly.  I’m trotting now along the sidewalk of gratitude and tomfoolery.  Oh!  One of the hurriers just bit the dust while wearing a pair of high-tech tennis shoes that look like rejects from the Cirque de Soliel clowns’ prop box.  I bend down to check the laces on my white Keds tennis shoes and prepare for the home stretch.

Here’s the main thing…I never wanted to be a bystander.  That would suck.  I have always wanted to run the amazing race, but at my own pace.  And here I am.  Still in the race and nearing the finish line.

I’m not tired from my run, even though I’m not as naturally swift as I used to be.  I’m smarter now, and I know shortcuts everywhere.  It’s not against the rules to take them.  Not in this race.  It’s not the finish line that counts.  The race is fun.

I will never be a bystander, handing out bottles of water to the sweating, panting contestants running by me.  I’ll be more like Betty White, playing into my eighties and laughing at the twenty-somethings who have no idea that this race can kill you.

ONWARD THROUGH THE FOG!!!

SalGal