Crack that Whip

For the past 15 years, 9 months, and 2 weeks, S.B.'s primary role in this here relationship, other than looking cute, has been to:

1. lift every single car we own, ever will own, and are even thinking of owning, at least three inches higher off the ground

2. poke fun at me

3. make it up to me by buying me Chanel

Until last week, when he decided to add race pacer to the list. Here I was, thinking I was going to have the Duke City Half Marathon all to my slow-ass self, enjoying the scenery and planning fall outfits in my head, and now I'm going to have him along to drill sergeant me into actually meeting my time goal, which, until last week, I didn't even know I had.

S.B.: "So, what's your goal for this race?"

Moi: "Um . . . to finish?"

S.B.: Rolls eyes. "I mean, your pace, your goal pace?"

Moi: "Um."

S.B. gets up to go get his calculator, starts doing engineer type things to the buttons, and determines that I'm going to shoot for 2 hours, 17 minutes, or a 10:30 minute mile. Or however the math works out, I can't remember. Something like that. And he'll be right there beside me to make sure I meet it, even if he has to tie a rope around my waist and drag me there.

Well. At least there will be pancakes afterward.