Continuing with my carpe diem summer, I decided I wanted to run a mud race. I've always wanted to, but figured it wasn't a very "me" thing to do. But that just doesn't sound like a good enough reason not to do something anymore, so it went on the list.
I twisted Craig's arm (read: employed my womanly wiles) and I talked the neighbors into joining us (read: emailed them and their four mud-loving boys . . . easy peasy) and we all prepared ourselves for a day of muddy fun (read: spent some time rooting through drawers for old clothes that we didn't mind throwing away at the end of the day.)
We arrived early, donned our numbers and tattoos, filled up on free cotton candy and surveyed the course. It was going to be dirty.
The good news is that no one broke anything--knees, ankles, shins all intact--and the better news is that we really whoopped it up, crossing many things off the bucket list--rolling across a rope net, belly-crawlin under a (non-barbed) barbed wire course and sliding head-first down a slippery mud hill into unsuspecting slow-pokes. Not to mention the tatoo.
And when we got all done, we ran it again. It was just that good.