Runaway bridezilla

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Oh no. I’ve become what I always insisted I would never be. I’ve become a bridezilla.

I can’t stop talking about it; even when I try to change the subject, inevitably the discussion swerves back in that direction. It’s all about the outfit, the logistics, what we’re going to eat, what music to play, making sure everyone turns up on time and hoping someone will get a few decent photos. Everything has to go perfectly since I’m not planning to do it more than once – although, you never know. I’m already boring everyone stiff talking about it, and the event’s not until August.

There’s no wedding involved though, I hate weddings. No, I’m talking about a 100 mile race.

If you know me, you know my Evernote lists. Those things run my life; my main job to-do lists, my freelance job to-do lists, blog notes, race prep lists, holiday plans, they all go straight into little lists with pleasingly tickable tickboxes next to them. The list for the North Downs Way 100 gets a tweak every couple of days or so, and even when there isn’t anything to tweak I just gaze at it adoringly, as if looking at it is going to bring me closer to August. Like a bride-to-be poring over a mood board, magazines full of dresses and table settings, invitation samples and menus. Seriously, how do I still have friends?

Some of those patient, long-suffering friends actually have significant life events of their own to talk about, would you believe. You know, actual weddings, babies, mortgages and the like. And there’s me, able to tell you the date of any major trail or ultra race off the top of my head but completely stumped when to comes to my friend’s child’s birthday.

“It’s July, right? Or June? A summer month.”

“It was February, Jaz. You missed it.”

So I was a little reticent to follow Cat’s advice and put up a post asking for race pacers on the Chasers Facebook page; it’s a bit look-at-me, I thought, not to mention presumptuous to hope that anyone would give up their time to pace me. And by giving up their time, I don’t mean spending a sunny Sunday afternoon trolling around in the countryside. I can only have pacers after the 50 mile mark, which will take around 12 hours for me to reach, which means any potential support crew having to make their way to Nowheresville, Kent around suppertime and stick with me through the wee hours while I dribble on, sleep deprived and crotchety and demanding entertainment like a toddler on a sugar comedown.

Of course, I’d reckoned without the completely awesome and slightly barmy Chasers trail club. While I was toing and froing about whether or not to ask for help, they were already looking up crew access points and learning Queen songs to sing to keep my spirits up. A hundred miles is a pretty long way to run, and they understood that I would need help even if I was too proud or too nervous to ask for it, just like any friend would do. In retrospect, it’s a bit daft of me to worry about geeking out over a run with a load of running geeks. Not to mention the fact that the whole reason we know each other is our mutual interest in running really fucking long distances. 

I suppose the mistake I’d made was worrying about why my non-running friends would care about my running activities, any more than I care about what flowers are going in someone’s bridal bouquet or what consistency the crap their toddler did this morning was or how much fun they had at some hipster bar last night. Facebook has made every moment so public, everyone’s life is like a glossy magazine advert now. Yeah, sure it’s irritating to scroll through a news feed full of “LOOK HOW EXCITING MY LIFE IS!” but even though I try to keep my fanfaring to a minimum I’m as guilty of it as anyone. And yet, it’s not like anyone’s ever told me to shove my medal photos up my arse, not that I’d blame them if they did.

Because that’s what being a friend is all about, isn’t it? It doesn’t mean expecting them to care as much about your shit as you do; it’s about celebrating anything that is important in each other’s lives. What that thing is, whether it’s a significant event or an everyday moment, it’s not been posted to show off, or because people think you want to know about it; it’s been posted because they want to share their happiness with you, regardless of the source of that happiness. And it’s a privilege to know someone who wants to share their happiness with you, whether it’s “Look how many shots I drank!” or “Look how many miles I ran!”. Or, occasionally, both. 

So, yeah, I’m a bridezilla. I’ll try to keep my squee moments within the confines of decency, or at the very least, restrict my running geekery to my running geek friends, but every now and again you might see a photo of an outfit or an update about a cake tasting session. Humour me, mute my posts if you need to. Accept my apologies in advance. It’ll all be over in August. And then I’ll try to be a less shit friend. 

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