Fifty thousand women turned out today to run La Parisienne, and I hobbled along the finish lines like a stubborn grouch in adorable heels. We had promised to attend the after-party for Nick’s coworkers back when we thought I would run with them, and I have to say, the energy kind of made me wish I had just gone ahead and run anyway.
There were live bands all along the way, and a constantly cheering crowd that was at least six deep by the finish line. Gwen overheard a snippet of conversation in which a young child attempted to cheer his mother on, only to be told that she hadn’t come by yet. After only the slightest of pauses, he regrouped and came up with, “Go all the mommies!”
My favorite thing, though, was the men. They came prepared with fairly flamboyant drag–flamboyant for cardio, anyway–and jumped in from the sidelines to run along in support. So about one in ten “women” would be six feet tall with a respectable beard, wearing a Day-Glo green wig and a striped cotton sundress. At the café, we saw a father and son sporting matching curly hot-pink wigs, along with the wife/mother they had obviously just crossed the finish line with. All in all, it looked like a good way to get a day’s exercise in.
Oh, and Nick’s coworker Corinne, upon hearing about my leg troubles, announced definitively that I must “go see Steffe at the Hôpital Somethingfrench.” I nodded along like I do when I have no intention of following up–I don’t know who Steffe is, would take at least 12 tries to get the hospital name right, have more or less resigned myself to just resting the injury away (my doctor shrugged and suggested acupuncture at our final appointment), and just generally don’t like taking advice when I have no clue what it is.
But then, of course, Steffe–Corinne’s charming husband whom I’ve met at least twice–showed up to the party, and he was wonderful. After listening carefully he suggested a long holiday from impact (I know, I know: have to hang up those cute heels for a while), and then jabbed my shin with his index finger when I wasn’t looking. The second poke hurt like hell, and he confidently explained that I have a “bruise to the skin of the bone” and a “pain-point two inches long,” both of which sound so, so much cooler than “shinsplints,” which is, I’m fairly sure, what it all translates out to.
Anyway. Next year, definitely!