On Saturday, Pythagoras competed in his first Olympic-distance triathlon with surprisingly little drama.
There were no Swedish supermodels throwing confetti and bikini tops as he crossed the finish line, but there was also no need for him to crawl weakly to the end while peeing down his leg and insisting his name is Rebecca.
He finished fifth in his age group, which qualifies him for Nationals should we wish to journey to Tuscaloosa, Alabama in September.
But despite his solid finish, Pythagoras was trotting down the if only path mere seconds after he’d crossed the finish line.
If only he hadn’t been sick all week…
If only he’d slept better the previous night…
If only he’d eaten a different breakfast…
I finally had to demand he stop lest he reach the conclusion that he would have won the whole race if only his pre-competition ritual had included a hand job from Jennifer Love Hewitt.
Annoying though his if only game may be, I’ve gotta admit I’ve been doing it too – particularly with this book.
If only I’d started writing in mid-March…
If only I hadn’t given myself so many days off…
If only I’d gotten up earlier this morning…
And I have to stop myself and say then what, idiot?
Sure, I’d be done by now. Usually I take about three months to finish a book, and this one will come in a little over three-and-a-half by the time I type “the end” in the next few days.
Is that really the end of the world?
Probably not. This is the third book in my contract and it isn’t even due on my editor’s desk until February. February, but I’m beating myself up now for dawdling.
In truth, the biggest reason for the delay is that I’ve had the chance to spend some extra quality time with Pythagoras these last six weeks. Unsurprisingly, I’ve grabbed that chance like I'd grab a firm butt cheek.
Do you play the if only game? Do you have an effective way of stopping yourself that doesn’t involve medieval torture devices? Please share, I could use better strategies.
I would like to sneak in just one more if only, if I may.
If only that beyotch beside me hadn’t stuck her hand out, I’d have a lovely photo of Pythagoras crossing the finish line in Saturday’s race.