…was the first thing I said to myself after hitting the little green enter button.

After a great run last night I did a victory lap around the house, arms waving frantically in the air, prompting veri-husband to sit me down and tell me I had to enter my triathlon, telling me how disappointed I’d be if I waiting too long and it filled up without me.

Last year it took me a long time to register for my sprint triathlon. I loved the training, but I’m not — you know — athletic so I feel like kind of a fraud. Like I’ll show up at the race and everyone will look at me with puckered faces wondering who the hell I think I am for trying to invade their sport. I fear that I’ll be midway through the race and someone will come up on bike (in my head I imagine it someone who’s already breezed through the finish line hours ago) and tell me sympathetically that they just have to open the roads back up, but, you know, I’m welcome to go ahead and finish the race on my own.

I’m afraid.

So I was waiting, hesitating, doubting. A sprint triathlon is one thing, but an olympic tri? Nearly twice as long? But he’s right. I want to do it, I am planning to do it, and I needed to step up and claim my place (which, judging from the completion times from last year, will be near the bottom of the pack). But I’ll be there, I’ll finish. At some point. I did last year.