Sweat Sixteen

Is there anything sweet about running sixteen miles? I hope so. That’s how many I’m running on Saturday (alarm is set for 4:15 a.m.—ack!) and I have been trying to psych myself up for the run by silently chanting the phrase, “sweet sixteen, sweet sixteen,” because I actually do find that having a positive attitude about an upcoming run usually means the run will be a fun one; it’s when I fear the mileage that I find myself dragging.


So, yeah! Sixteen miles! Around two and a half hours of straight, uninterrupted running: easy-peasy. Bring it on! Can’t wait for my sweet sixteen part-ay!

Anyway.

Yesterday at work, with this chant of sweet sixteen sweet sixteen still in my head, I called our help desk because I needed to get a new temporary password. The help desk attendant (who clearly hadn’t been an English major) typed noisily on her keyboard for a few minutes and then told me my new password was SWEET.

I tried typing this in and when it didn’t grant me access, and she said, “Oops, sorry, I spelled it wrong. Try SWEAT.”

That worked.

Hopefully this won’t be an omen that my 16 will be all sweat and no sweet. I mean, I expect the sweat. But I also expect the sweet. (Which indeed might be expecting too much.)