I’m becoming my father ⁰

No, I haven’t resorted to dumpster diving for various valuables, half-eaten pastries and “perfectly good” empty Gatorade bottles.

Nor have I started wearing a leopard print Speedo while getting my tan on in the front yard.

But, only because I don’t have a yard. And it’s January. Otherwise I’d totally do it.

No, my new habit is worse. Much worse.

Are you ready?

I’ve been blowing my nose onto the side of the road, regardless of who happens to be looking.

There are no tissues involve. Only leaning, gravity, and an index finger.

You may know it as a “snot rocket”.

Don’t judge me.

I have a very vivid memory of the first time I ever saw my dad do this. We were living in Alaska, and he and I were playing in the back yard with my sister Hayley. It was pitch black out (which for all I know meant that it was 2:00 in the afternoon)  and bitterly cold. Naturally, my dad’s nose started to run. He carefully plugged one nostril with his index finger and blew out the other side, letting the clear, runny fluid fall into the pure white snow.

The execution would have been flawless, had he not mistakenly dribbled some snot on the hand that was plugging nostril number one.

Not wanting to rub the nastiness on his oh-so-fashionable neon snow pants, he flung his hand in the air, hoping the excess drops would spin off into the dark, wintry oblivion.

His method worked a little too well.

Dad flung his hand so hard, that his wedding ring flew off his finger, burying itself some twenty feet away in the endlessly deep abyss of snow.

Luckily, my Grandpa Bob found it two years later in our gravel driveway, and it’s still on my dad’s hand today.

Unluckily, he never did kick the freestyle nose blowing habit.

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Fast forward twelve years to my senior year of high school. I was one of the unfortunate souls who didn’t have a car at my disposal, and was forced to ride the bus with the lowly underclassmen until the day I graduated. I also lived in a “rough” part of town, and was afraid to make the third of a mile trek to the bus stop on my own.

My safety escort was none other Mark “Snot Rocket” W. himself.

He had a knack for performing the socially incriminating ritual in front of everyone. I was, of course, humiliated beyond belief. Today I would probably be more impressed than anything. He had this move where he would fling the remaining droplets from the tip of his nose over his left shoulder without even using his hands…just a simple jerk of the neck. I’ve never seen anything like it.

I still carry the guilt that can only come from being ashamed of such unique (and practical) talent.

But as a seventeen-year-old cheerleader, I was just embarrassed. All the kids at the bus stop talked about it–particularly how loud it was. Mark really knows how to let one rip. Sometimes it can even get him in trouble.

There was this one time he was on his way to Germany with my mom. They had won a two-week tour of Bavaria sponsored by Budweiser . The highlight would be seeing the Rolling Stones perform live in Berlin at the commencement of the trip.

Dad blew his nose so hard the night before they left, he ended up rupturing a blood vessel. It hemorrhaged through the night and almost kept him from boarding the plane.

I realize this probably sounds like the most ridiculous story you’ve ever heard, yet I assure you that every word of it is absolutely true.

I can also assure you that any “cool effect” you acquire by having a father who travels to international rock concerts with beer companies will automatically be lost the instant that same father shows up to the airport with tampons in his nose.

I could go on for hours. The list of inappropriate nose blowing incidents is longer than even Mark would like to admit.

And now, he has me to carry on the torch.

I will do it with boldness, pride, and while I am sweating.

I will do it while I run.

Yes, you heard me, run.

Now I’m really becoming my father.

Minus the whole “running in nothing but microscopic cross country shorts with the waistband rolled over twice to minimize tan lines” thing.

Which was also a hot topic at the 121st street school bus stop, in case you were wondering.

I recently committed to tightening up my diet and exercise plan, and ended up losing about fifteen pounds. I’m not sure quite how it happened, but one day, due to my new-found confidence, I decided to go for a run while on vacation in New York City.

Seven miles later, I decided to stop.

Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone.  I’ve been trying to force myself to enjoy running for years. Heck, not even enjoy it, but just have the ability to do it without feeling like I’m about to puke up a lung covered in tabasco sauce.  Even at my pinnacle of physical fitness, I could only do a 5K. I had come to accept the fact that Katrina Taylor is simply not a runner.

Guess what?

Katrina Taylor, following in the swift and scantily clad footsteps of her father, is finally a runner.

She is also a drive by snot rocketer.

Just as I’m nowhere near my Dad’s former pace of ten miles in under an hour, my nose blows are not graceful  or mess free. I have soiled many a good pair of gloves, and generally have a fifty percent chance of hitting my shoes.

But I don’t care. Because I’m running.

And also because carrying Kleenex in your pocket is only something Grandma’s do. I’d be more likely to go for a jog in the infamous cross-country shorts than do that.

I am not a grandma. I am a runner. A slow runner, but a runner none the less.

This is the part where Scott gets annoyed with me for bragging about running long distances.

This is also the part where I tell him that if he had run 13.6 miles on New Year’s Eve, I might let him have a say in the matter.

That’s right, 13.6 miles. Just over a half-marathon. Just me, my headphones, and the Burke Gilman trail.

Booyah, thunder thighs.

Alright…I still kind of have the thighs of thunder….but at least now I’m using them to drag myself from point A to point B. Before they were nothing more than a memory foam mattress for Jolie. I consider this progress.

You know what would really be progress? Running a marathon.

26.2 miles.

I’ve been wanting to write this post for a while, but have been way too scared. I realize that the instant I publish this, I’m holding myself accountable to the readers of this blog. There’s no going back. If I don’t run the race, I’ll be letting someone other than myself down.

Also, I feel it is my duty as a Norwegian Lutheran to participate in the Lake Wobegon Trail Marathon on May 12th. And then gorge myself with a huge, steamy platter of Lutefisk, just for good measure.

I'll be the one wearing the tutu. And maybe the cross-country shorts, if I'm feeling sentimental.

Garrison Keillor is going to be so proud of me.

I've met Garrision twice. Told you I was hard-core Norwegian Lutheran. He's actually a very strange dude. This, coming from a SUPER normal person like me, of course.

But I’m not doing it for Garrison. Not totally, at least.

I’m doing it for struggling communities in Africa, some of which are literally dying because they don’t’ have access to clean water and other basic necessities. By partnering with Team World Vision, I’ll be raising money through my race that will help provide life saving essentials to African families in need.

I realize this video is almost fourteen minutes long, but it’s worth every second. It will forever change your perspective. It’s what I’ll be thinking of when I want to stop running. This, not the fear of failing in front of my blog readers, is what will keep me going.

Maybe you can’t run the marathon with me. But you can help by supporting my efforts and make a donation to support families like Sabina’s, who are desperate for the drink of the clean water we take for granted on a daily basis. Click here to make a donation on my personal fundraising page.

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I’m betting even my notoriously “frugal” father is going to find it in his heart to empty his pockets for this one. Although, he’s not too happy about me running such a long distance in the first place. He’s beyond proud of me for raising the money, he’s just worried I’m going to “ruin my knees” in the process.

I simply reminded him that if the heels I tromp around in haven’t ruined my knees, nothing will.

Quite frankly, I’m more worried about losing my wedding ring in a drive-by nose blowing on race day, but that’s just me.

Don’t want to miss out on the epic train wreck also known as Katrina training for a marathon?

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