Remember my brother? The one who less than TWO weeks ago ran an ironman triathlon? Which is 140 miles of RACING and took him FOURTEEN HOURS? Yeah, him, the one who is bat shit crazy? Remember him?

Well, he is coming into town today with his girlfriend and my Dad. BroZ called me yesterday and said the following:

“My girlfriend and I found out there is a 5K in Huntsville Thanksgiving morning and we’re going to run it, is that okay?”

WTF? He’s barely recovered from the 140 mile race he did and he’s wanting to run ANOTHER one? On THANKSGIVING? Thanksgiving is a legal day of gluttony. Everyone is supposed to eat so much they get sick and no one is supposed to do anything athletic. Unless by “athletic” you mean “Put the pumpkin pie in the oven and grab some more cashews while you’re up.” He says my Dad may run it too

(If you’re wondering, my Dad is where BroZ got that I-should-exercise gene from. It skipped me.)

I told BroZ that I would totally be ALL OVER that 5K with him if my doctor had given me medical clearance to exercise yet. Alas, he hasn’t, and won’t for another 2-3 weeks. And since I don’t want my uterus falling out along the way, I decided I’d skip the race. But I really WANTED to do it. Really, I did.

I was totally lying and he knew it. I have been known to run, having gotten myself up to four miles runs before my wedding. But - if I have ANY excuse NOT to do it? I won’t. And don’t. And choose to eat donuts instead.