Dear Kid,

Anyone who says that men and women are identical in all things has never experienced the joy of a sports bra.

A well-crafted sports bra is all about, um, restraint, and is built with more attention to engineering than the space station.

A sports bra “fits” if it is 4 sizes smaller than that which it is trying to contain. Wriggling in and out of a good sports bra involves the grace of a drunk water buffalo and the agility of a contortionist. Scientists have determined that more calories are burned dressing and undressing than during most workouts.

You think Game of Thrones contains battles? Ha! That’s nothing compared to the Battle of the Sports Bra.

Yesterday I almost lost the battle. The particular garment in question has a clip thing (no problem) AND a zipper (big problem). To correctly fasten the zipper you have to exert 2 billion pounds of force to bring the two sides together and then zip the zipper. While you hold the edges still. This works better if you’re an octopus. Having only standard issue limbs, I struggled.

Somehow, the zipper misaligned and I found myself in the grip of industrial strength elastic. The zipper would neither zip nor move down. The elastic tried to simultaneously strangle me and pull apart the entire contraption.

I tugged, I tweaked, I coaxed, I cajoled, I pulled, I lost. I tried holding part of the zipper in my teeth. (Yes, mom, even after all that orthodonture.) I was mere moments away from calling the rescue team to bring a pair of scissors to cut me free when I finally (finally!) muttered the proper curse and got unzipped.

After I got the whole thing refastened, I hit the gym floor. It seemed like a lot of effort to stroll once around the track. (I’m kidding. I strolled several times around.)

Equality, my Aunt Fanny.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Most of my friends are a little crazy. Generally they are crazy in a good sort of way, so we have reciprocal wackiness.

You know, just a little on the What? side of things.

But every now and then, one of them will cross over into true Have You Lost Your Mind?

One of my friends went to Are You Insane Land this weekend.

A while ago, she tried to get me to participate in a 5K with her. Since I was pretty sure the “K” didn’t stand for kayaking or knitting, I decided to pass lest the K stand for “killing me, here.”

Yesterday, this same friend sent me the following message—on my beloved Fitbit: “Contemplating Half Pig on May 1. Interested in the challenge?”

To be clear, she did not mean eating half a pig, but rather participating in the Flying Pig Half Marathon which is like a marathon only the ambulances are closer to the starting line.

Of course I was interested. Interested in how she thought that someone who walks about 5 miles (total) on a REALLY active day might be able to perambulate that far. All at once. Without falling so far behind that the race ended days before I get to the finish line.

My response to her—not on my beloved Fitbit since I don’t want to offend it: “When did they start allowing bicycles in the Pig?”

So far no response. But to be fair, I only sent the message a few minutes from now. (Yes, you read that correctly.)

I’ll keep you posted.

From the comfort of my 10,000 steps per day goal.

Love, Mom

P.S. Who did you share DearKidLoveMom.com with today? Well, what are you waiting for?

Dear Kid,

(Don’t tune out—you’re actually going to like this after the first paragraph or so.)

Once upon a time, there was a Viking King named Ragnar. Like most Vikings of Legend, he was the scourge of France and England, the father of many sons who weren’t all exactly devoted to him, went around killing giant serpents, and had a big beard. He probably raped a few people too, but no one talks about that. And since he’s been dead a really long time, he is seen as “a conqueror, a wild man, a leader, fearless, and free-spirited.”

Which is why the founders of Ragnar chose to name their crazy races after him.

Ragnar is a team relay race (12 members per team) over about 200 miles. Yes, you read that right. Each runner runs three times (legs are between 3 and 8 miles of varying difficulty). The rest of the team hops into vans, drives to an exchange point or cheering point, pretends to sleep, and waits for their turn to run.

Just to be clear there is no sailing, warring, or serpent killing during the race. Beards are optional, costumes are encouraged.

Ragnar races are run in a bunch of cities, none of which are Cincinnati, so you don’t have to worry that I’ll enter.

You can stop laughing now.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Today is the Flying Pig marathon.

I have a thing for all those flying piggies.

And I don’t object in the least to other people running or walking or marathoning.

In fact, I’m quite impressed with all that.

The first time a friend of mine ran a marathon was in grad school when the fab Karen ran her first 26.2 miles. I remember showing up in couple of places along the route to cheer her on.

Cheering is a very important part of marathoning, so to everyone participating in today’s events Oink! And Go For It! You Rock! Keep on Keeping On! Great Job!

In 1896, the first modern marathon was run as selection race for the Athens Olympics.

It wasn’t until 1984 that the Olympics added a women’s marathon. This was probably longer than it should have taken. The amazing Joan Benoit (she was the Boston University track coach in case you were wondering) won that year.

The Flying Pig ends at the Finish Swine.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

IF you had been around on September 16, 1954, and IF you had been a trend-watching sort of dude, and IF you were interested in sports, you might have noticed the first issue of Sports Illustrated. You weren’t around, so you didn’t notice, so I—being that sort of mother—shall attempt to fill you in.

Sports Illustrated was first published on September 16, 1954. You are now filled in.

But wait, there’s more.

Many people in the magazine publishing industry scoffed (that’s the polite word) at the idea of a magazine devoted entirely to sports. After all, several had already failed (including two named Sports Illustrated). But interest in sports was exploding (if you had been around you might have heard the bang) and color printing was exploding (ditto). All in all, it was a rather explosive beginning.

The magazine more or less (in this case “more”) missed the mark in the early days focusing on polo (the kind with horses rather than water), safaris (the kind with guns rather than cameras), and yachting (the kind with rakish hats). Advertisers yawned and only the snooty rich people cared about the coverage.

Fast forward to the 1960s, when SI (as it wasn’t yet known) began to have full color coverage of sports, began to pay attention to football (the American kind), and introduced the Swimsuit Issue. Wham! (That was the sound barrier being broken as SI’s popularity zoomed up.)

Sports Illustrated has named a Sportsman of the Year since it began. The first such person was Roger Bannister. No extra points for knowing who he is, but you can pat yourself on the back. in 1972 Billie Jean King became the first female to be named Sportsman of the Year.

Love, Mom

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