Friends, Romans, countrymen.  Something really bad is about to happen.  This Sunday I am running my first marathon.  Okay, half marathon.  Okay okay… the split half relay.  But it is still 6.5547 miles… an activity that definitely falls well into the category Things I Have No Business Doing.

My Friend Mandy guilted me into signing up about eight months ago when I went over to her house to give her and her newborn baby a visit.  I had barely sat down before she launched into a sales pitch of how she needed support to get her baby weight off and wouldn’t it be fun if we all ran a race together and oh by the way they serve beer at the end of the Rock and Roll one in October and YOU try saying no to some sleep deprived blubbering mess with big puffy eyes and a baby sucking all remaining life energy through her nipple trying to bribe you with beer while you’re holding a pan of lasagna on your lap.

“Sure I’ll sign up,”  I said, slipping two Benadryl in her coffee and patting her head.

Apparently my memory-erasing plan didn’t work because the following week she forwarded me a Groupon.  The jig was up.  She signed up on a team with her husband; I signed up on a team with my sister.

And it’s right about now, six days before the gun fires at the starting line, that I am realizing I probably should have been practicing or something.

I mean, I’ve been preparing for the run in that I have the cutest little running pants and have spent the past six months thoughtfully refining my play list loading up on heavy carbs.  But the running part… well let’s just say that I felt like God was starting to answer my prayers yesterday when I read that a giant methane cloud was discovered over the four corners that has the potential to put a quick and final end to civilization.

I have always tried to live my life with the mantra “no regrets”, and really until now I’ve just needed it to get me through the morning after I ate an entire cheesecake or as I set a mouse trap under the sink.  But between us girls, this moment as I stand at my kitchen counter dipping ginger bread cookies into cream cheese frosting and sipping my vanilla latte I am regretting the shit out of this decision.

Sure, I run every once in a while.  I ran the St. Pat’s Day 5-miler a couple of times.  A couple of times where I trained regularly and still was seconds away from having a stroke as I crossed the finish line.

I’ve also ran a handful of 5K races, once even being chased by hundreds of zombies.

But this is another whole mile and a half and there are no flesh eating zombies and my cardio has been limited to hovering over public toilets and speed walking out of the library with a toddler under each arm.

Suddenly the plot from Gone Girl is becoming extremely attractive.