I got drunk and called myself an athlete a few weeks ago. This is very funny to me: someone who has spent much of her life in dread fear of organized sports calling herself athletic. Hm. It must have been the ceviche tostadas which invited a generous pairing of a lovely dry rose from a boutique winery in Napa served up in plastic malt glasses. Anyone who says “Nothing tastes as good as feeling thin feels,” (as I’ve often heard batted around both Weight Watchers meetings and pro-anorexia sites- hmmm) doesn’t know how to live.

Ok so I wasn’t totally drunk, but I was high on life and ceviche tostadas. (they really are incredible- little place called Sabor Michoacan- run by a local family- just fabulous) My soon-to-be-brother-in-law (hereafter to be called STB) was talking about his father, who is something of a health and fitness guru, developing a nutritional cookie, sort of like a protein bar, but more natural without all the added chemicals and preservatives. I was expressing enthusiasm because, during my long runs, I had become a fan of Clif gels and bars for energy. All the gels are kind of gross but they’re good quick carbs, easy to eat and digest on the run. I was telling STB about the runners I’d come across who were looking for more natural runner food options. Clif is about the only company out there developing natural runner food. I thought there was a market for his father’s product.

Of course- in the alcohol-addled center of my brain as I tried to get attention over the increased volume of my family’s voices (why do we get deafer when we get drunker?) this came out as, “Athletes like ME…”

Everyone turned to look at me. And not in the good way. I turned bright red. See my family knows. My absolute inability to play team sports. The last picked and all that. The daydreamer in the outfield praying the ball will never come her way. The slowest runner on the relay team. The one who couldn’t make a basket if she were seven foot five and right next to the hoop.

She runs one marathon and suddenly she’s an athlete? Oh the vanity. But let’s look at the word. Athlete: a person who is trained or skilled in exercises, sports, or games requiring physical strength, agility, stamina. Ok. I’m not necessarily skilled, but I am trained. I continue to train. I have stamina. Sort of me.

Then I came across the word “fathlete” on some blog. I loved it immediately. Fathlete conjures up just the right mix of “I’m a runner and I work hard, but I don’t look traditionally athletic and I don’t take myself too damn seriously.” From here on out I am a fathlete. Funnily enough, I will be considered an “Athena” or “Filly” class runner (the bigger runners) even when I get down to my goal weight. So I’ll always be slightly bigger. That’s just me and my body structure. So that’s the story of my new blog title.

The next chapter in the fathlete chronicles is the Traverse City Marathon. Dear god I’m scared. Stay tuned for all the neurotics to come! It’ll be fun!