Don't do this with your husband

... Run.

There are many things I'd recommend you do with your man, after all, quality time is kinda essential to the whole marriage thing. But slapping your thunder thighs against the concrete with him ain't one of them. It will leave you feeling discouraged and wanting to drain your sorrows (and achy calves) in ice cream.

To gear up for a 5k we did this weekend, Grahm and I decided to "train" together. Until last week, I had decided that round does indeed qualify as a shape, so therefore I must be "in shape" since I am, in fact, a shape... (That made no sense.) But Grahm wasn't okay with my sound reasoning; he said we actually need to run before the race. Lame sauce.

Grahm would blaze a trail, and I would be slowing huffing and puffing in my 300-lb lady pace where my tennis shoes barely got off the ground. With queso and Dr Pepper clogging my arteries and six months of a glorious couch-potato state, my legs weren't exactly cooperating. A few minutes after Grahm blew by me, he would slowly jog back toward me... after all, we were running "together." I'm pretty sure he ran twice what I ran from all the coming and going he did.

Men think they are encouraging partners because they:

1. Pat your buns: Not motivating, since that, my friend, is the piece of flub slowing me down. If it wasn't for that bad boy (girl?) I'd be footloose and fancy free, and just might be able to keep up with you.

2. Yell: "C'mon, babe! You're almost there!" or "You can do it! Only a little bit longer." While this may be encouraging for a moment or two, it's more embarrassing than anything... especially when the elderly couple across the street is walking faster than I'm running. I don't need the whole neighborhood knowing I'm having trouble running one measly mile. No need shouting it from the rooftop, my friend.

3. (Mostly) stick with you: Whether they're by your side the entire time, or they trot back to you after they completed the whole run and you're still on the first mile... this is not helpful. It makes me feel bad that I'm so obviously holding you back. God forbid, I restrain your inner Olympian. It also makes me feel like I have to run faster. Which I don't want to do. At all. Just go ahead of me, and I (kinda) promise that I won't walk while you're not looking.

I used to brag to Grahm about how I am such a better runner since I have two marathons under my fanny pack. In fact, I was the person who made fun of people for bragging about completing a 5k. I mean, that's only 3 miles. Try 26.2. Well, my friends, I ate my words a little bit this weekend. We ran well, and I felt accomplished! I probably will do any future training by myself, but I still loved racing with my lightening speed man.

A monumental day

Raise your hand if you're in debt.

This is me, no longer raising my hand.
This is me, no longer feeling like I have to spread eagle and drop off our firstborn to bloody student loan services in order to satisfy the couple grand we owed. (God, that's one expensive piece of paper crammed away in some box in my closet.)

Please ignore my little smokey man-knuckles. And yes, I did cover up my address. I don't trust you people.

My parents were wonderful and helped my freshman year, and then kicked my butt to the curb they fondly dubbed "On Your Ownville." I appreciate it so much now, so that's exactly what we're doing with our children. No question. Jena Roach's philosophy on child rearing (stolen from some cheesy George Clooney movie): You only give your kids enough to do something with, not so much to do nothing.

It kind of sickens me when kids go through college without a job... without knowing how to pay bills or rent or tuition. (This is a major rant, if you haven't already noticed.) It's like, dude, daddy ain't gonna be there forever. Grow up, sorority sista.

I worked two jobs and went to school full-time in order to not accrue a mountain of debt the size of Kim Kardashian's ass.  So I'm very proud to say that I have paid off all my loans, and Grahm and I officially have zero debt. We owe nothing to nobody. (Did I mention my degree is in Professional Writing?) No car payments, loan payments, etc. ... and we aren't living in my parents' house. Glorious.

So excuse me while I go buy a crap ton of things from Pottery Barn in celebration...

bringing the Thunder to San Antonio

I realize that 99.9 percent of people who read this blog are a) my mother or b) female. That being said, you probably know more about the Miss USA pageant tomorrow (Miss Texas, can we trade bods?) than the NBA playoffs tonight... unless you have a sports-obsessed husband/dad. (This lucky lady has both.)

Tonight is Game 4 of the OKC Thunder and San Antonio Spurs game series. Grahm and I are from OKC but just moved to San Antonio this year... so we're (kinda) in a bit of conundrum. Since we (still) have no friends here, we aren't really in a place to be turning away potential buds with our love for the opposing team. I mean, we are apart of this city now. Shouldn't we just bandwagon this shindig and don a hideous gray color?

No, my friends. We should NOT. Location doesn't change your roots, man. We will be going to Buffalo Wild Wings wearing our beautiful blue Thunder gear, loud and stinkin' proud. We will cheer at ungodly, annoying decibels for our team back in OKC. I'm fully prepared for the death stares we're going to get while we chow down on some wings. I don't recommend this behavior if you actually do want to make friends in a new city.

I felt the need to tell you all in case we are murdered by a Spurs fan tonight. Someone needs to know what really happened to us.