I never really knew my grandparents. They died before lasting memories could be imprinted on my heart.
I did have surrogate grands, though; Grand Marty (my namesake) and Gene Sir Harlan. If Brian and I had a boy baby, Harlan was one of the top names on the list.
Gene Sir used to strum his guitar and sing a twangy country tune, which we would beg for him to repeat over and over and over again.
It popped into my head this morning and went like this:
Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble
When you’re perfect in every way
I can’t wait to look in the mirror
‘Cause I get better lookin’ each day
To know me is to love me
I must be a heck of a man
Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble, but I’m doin’ the best that I can.
I’ve decided that I’m going remind myself of that message to keep my head in the right place as the race creeps closer. It is a mental game after all (not just physical), which is hard to remember as the miles grow well into double digitland and the legs begin to feel like jello.
To know me is to love me, I must be a heck of a gal
Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble, but I’m doin’ the best, and I’m gonna run fast, insecurities be damned, gonna strap the boobs down, and I”ll be body proud, cause Im doin’ the best that I caaaaaaannnnnnn!