Running Shorts

For those who hate getting older, consider running.
Once every five years, a runner becomes the baby in a brand new age division.
This past week, two members of the running-biking-kayaking-tubing-wine tasting-pool playing-bowling-camping-Wii boxing-sumo wrestling-book club turned younger.
The first, I Am Not Cheese, celebrated her 55th on Thursday. See, I didn’t use your name, Trish.
On Saturday, another teammate, whom I will refer to as Fast Kathy, celebrated her 40th.
An “0” birthday is a big deal, in our circles.
So, when we found out that Fast’s husband was serving up a nice, respectable braai for family and FBUs (friends before us), we showed up, too. Roughly about 20 of us.
We showed up, in what was not expected to be a “birthday” party, in festive dress to mark such a happy milestone.
We wore black.
We brought black balloons, black noiseless makers, black hats, a black boa, black bean salads and beverages of every shade.
I heard that some pink “friends” showed up, too. But, unlike us, they hung out in the front yard, stayed much too long and didn’t clean up after themselves.
But we had a blast. We met some wonderful new people—(and all are more than welcome to join RBKTWTPPBCWBSWBC)—- and we celebrated with friends old and young.
We just hope we didn’t scare you, Mr. and Mrs. Fast Kathy’s Mom and Dad. We really are a nice bunch, even if we did break into an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” every time someone said the word “birthday.“
Birthday?
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE PERSON I WILL REFER TO AS FAST KATHY WHO IS NOW OLDER THAN TOMB DUST,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!