Brian left for Las Vegas early Friday morning. As the best man in his best friend's wedding, he planned a weekend bachelor party in Sin City and had been looking forward to it for months. They partied hard and probably had a steady buzz all weekend long.
My hubby is a pretty avid runner and has been on a "OMG I'm getting old and fat I must run every day" kick lately which apparently is not exclusive to sobriety. So after a long night of drinking, instead of passing out like a normal person, Brian decided to go for a run.
When he first told me this, I laughed it off as him just being a crazy lunatic runner. He said that he didn't sweat the whole time and that he was pretty sure he was still drunk after the run. And he ran 9 miles. NINE. Nine miles would usually take him around an hour, but he has absolutely no concept of how long it took him. He does however, remember that he had a tough time stepping onto and off of curbs. I was skeptical of how he even knew he ran 9 miles, but he's very confident that he knew the route.
Then Brian mentioned that at one point during the run he stopped into a casino a casino to fill up his Gatorade bottle with some water. "Gatorade bottle? On a 9 mile run? You mean you carried a bottle for the entire time? Like, while running?" I asked, a little puzzled. He NEVER takes water. Not even on 20+ mile runs in the middle of the Florida summer. "Well yeah. I'm not really sure why I did it, but I just remember I got annoyed because I kept losing the cap. A million times. And it was so frustrating and seemed like the worst thing in the world. And every single time I found it in my pocket" he replied.
We laughed about it, but something else struck me as odd. Brian is VERY particular about his running shorts and none of the shorts that he runs in have pockets. So of course I pointed out this fact, to which he replied "Well, I ran in my pajama pants. The blue and white ones." You guys, Brian's pj pants are not just sweatpants. They are legit pajamas. Very lightweight cotton, blue and white plaid, boxer fly, drawstring, probably a little too short from shrinking PAJAMA PANTS. He has no idea why he chose to wear those instead of the running shorts he packed.
This story had me laughing so hard I was crying. It was my favorite story from the weekend, except maybe for the fact that while at the strip club a stripper came up and talked to him for 45 minutes straight, without ever trying to get him to buy a dance. Like, legitimately sat down in the chair next to him and she talked about her kid and he talked about me and the boys and then 45 minutes later she got up and wished him a great night. No, "Hey now that we've bonded over our families do you want to pay me to shake my boobs in your face" or anything. I'm not sure whether to honored that he talked about me and the boys for so long with a half naked woman or whether to be sad for the stripper because she must not be a very good saleswoman. Maybe a little of both.
Love him. Drunk running, stripper wisdom, and all.