Run for the money

A couple of weeks ago, I was half-heartedly listening to a recap of college football scores while giving my toenails their last coat of polish before fall. I say “half-heartedly” because the level of artistry that goes into masking the grotesqueness of my feet requires a high degree of concentration.

When they started talking about ridiculous blowouts, my ears perked up and my foot flinched. In an instant, my impeccable paint job was ruined by an errant streak of Midnight Sapphire on my big toe. Why? Because there is one part of college football that has always fascinated me: money games.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this phenomenon, the simplest and least tasteful explanation can be delivered in a single word—prostitution.

Early in the season, powerhouse schools like to schedule an easy game or two to dust off the cobwebs, build confidence and impress their home crowds with a dominating win. To do this, they seek out smaller, lesser-known teams and pay them to get their asses kicked.

Small colleges usually have small athletic budgets, which makes this sort of deal extremely lucrative for them. Most don’t think twice about pimping out their football teams for 3, 4, even $500,000—or more. Then they put the players on a nice charter plane—compliments the opposing team, of course—and pray that they all come back alive and with the majority of their limbs (and cognitive function) intact.

The result? Scores like “North Carolina-62, Elon-0,” “Florida State-55, Savannah State-0,” and “TCU-56, Grambling State-0.”

In some cases, it’s almost sad. I feel for the guys on the losing side of the scoreboard. I don’t care where you play—if you’re a college athlete, you are a competitive person. And competitive people hate losing.

If it were up to them personally, I’m sure there are some morally grounded players out there who would refuse to lose for cash. Back in my days as a legit athlete, I probably would have agreed with them. But now that I’m just a lowly has-been, I would be willing to bend my ethical standards under the right conditions.

So that got me to thinking—what if they developed a similar system in the world of competitive distance running? I mean, think about it: when people watch world-class distance runners race other world-class distance runners, there is really no way of grasping just how fast they are moving. It doesn’t help that they all look like they’re out on a leisurely joggy-jog when, in fact, they are splitting sub-60s.

But if you threw in a race where world-class distance runners raced middle-of-the-road distance runners—former Big Sky Conference Championship bronze medalists, for example—the audience would be able to see just how good these Olympians really are.

Take Kara Goucher, for example—America’s Sweetheart of distance running. High school cross-country runners idolize her. They probably cheered her on during last month’s Olympic marathon. She finished just a hair over 2:26—a time that most men, even really good ones, could only dream of achieving—which was good for 11^th place.

Except that in America’s eyes, 11^th place is not good. It’s not good at all. In fact, you probably already forgot that Kara Goucher even participated in the Olympic marathon.

Here in the good ol’ U.S. of A., we like winners—the bigger and more embarrassing the margin of victory, the better. The way I see it, there is only one way for Kara to avenge that 11^th place disaster (besides winning gold in Rio, which probably won’t happen if Ethiopia still exists in 2016): winning a race by a laughably obscene margin.

That’s where I (or some other washed-up has-been) would come in. I could be the Grambling State to her TCU. I could sort of, but not really, compete with her and make her look really, really good. I could get her fans all fired up and give her a solid foundation of confidence for the rest of the season. All I would ask for in return would be a small* percentage of her race winnings.

So Kara, once you realize how incredibly genius this idea is, drop me a line. My inbox—and your comeback—awaits.

*Less than a majority** share.

**Between 1 and 49 percent.  

If the shoe fits

Those who know me best probably are aware that when it comes to money, I err on the side of thrifty—which is really just a polite way of saying that I’m kind of cheap.

But just because I’m careful with my money doesn’t mean I don’t splurge every now and then, especially on something important. Like, on a scale of George Costanza to MC Hammer, I’d say that I fall somewhere right around Matt Lauer.

Matt would never squander his millions on a lavish mansion and a 40-person entourage, but I bet those suave suits and ties he dons on TV each morning don’t come from Men’s Wearhouse. (By the way, that’s not a typo—they really spell warehouse that way. So clever!)

Well, I’m no hot-in-an-older-and-more-professionally-distinguished-sort-of-way morning news anchor, so when it comes to work attire, my Old Navy slacks will do just fine. Running shoes, on the other hand, are something I’m willing to drop some dollars on.

My favorite shoe model—Asics Cumulus—usually runs somewhere in the neighborhood of $100 at my local running store. It’s not cheap, and each time I hand over my debit card to purchase a new pair, I die a little inside. But even though I know I could find them cheaper online, I take comfort in the fact that I’m supporting a local business that in turn supports the local running community. The warm fuzzies are almost enough to stop my left eye from twitching when I read my bank statement.

The other day, however, I was faced with a serious moral dilemma, and in hindsight, I’m pretty sure I failed whatever character test the universe was trying to impose on me.

You see, I have to be in a wedding next week, and since I’m pretty sure the bride would not appreciate me ruining the photographs from the most important day of her life with a pair of unsightly Dansko sandals, I am in need of a proper pair of dress shoes.

Knowing that I probably will never wear these shoes again, I set out to buy the most comfortable, inexpensive-but-not-cheap-looking pair of heels I could find. Turns out, this task was virtually impossible because (a) “comfortable heels” is an oxymoron, (b) my foot is too fat to fit into dainty lady-shoes and (c) the bridesmaid dresses are fuchsia, and seriously, what color shoes are you supposed to wear with a fuchsia dress at a summer wedding?

By the time I walked into Famous Footwear, I was at the end of my rope. I thought shoes would be the least of my worries at this wedding. I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to keep myself from sweating so there won’t be a host of nasty splotches all over my fuchsia dress.

After perusing the regular aisles and coming up empty-handed, I marched back to my favorite section of the store: the clearance rack. And there they were on the top shelf, like a shining beacon of light in a dark sea of hideous, out-of-season footwear: a pair of Asics Cumulus, in my size, for $80.

At first, I was convinced that it was a trick. I had always thought of Famous Footwear as the kind of place that sold Skechers Shape-Ups—and let’s face it, you just don’t go looking for a pair of real athletic shoes at a place that sells Skechers Shape-Ups. You just don’t.

I reached out and touched the box, half-expecting it to vaporize or turn into a pair of glute-toning shoes that Kim Kardashian promotes but would never be caught dead in outside of a contractually obligated appearance. Neither occurred. Still skeptical about their authenticity, I slipped them on and did a quick jog down the aisle. Yep, they were definitely the real thing.

My lips curled into a slightly evil grin of victory. As I walked up to the cash register, my chest puffed out in pride, I really felt like I was sticking it to the man. After I signed my name on the receipt, however, I felt a pang of guilt. Because in reality, I wasn’t sticking it to the man—I was sticking it to the local economy. And that made me feel like an asshole.

Fortunately, the small, liberal, corporate-America-hating part of me was quickly overpowered by the larger, bargain-loving, George Costanza part of me.

In fact, in the spirit of my George Costanza tendencies, I might just wear a pair of Timberlands to the wedding.   

And then I found $120

It’s the cliché add-on to the too-long, anticlimactic story that goes nowhere: “And then I found $5.”

Everyone has heard some variation of this story at least once over the course of their many awkward, who-invited-this-girl-to-the-party social encounters. It usually goes something like this:

You: Well, we sure are having some awesome weather lately.

Awkward girl: Yeah, I was thinking I was going to have to change out of my cropped pants before I left the house today, but when I opened the door and felt how warm it was, I decided against it. I rode my bike all the way to the café I work at, over on the north side, and I didn’t get cold at all. But I think I might have gotten a little sunburned, which reminds me, I need to stop by the drugstore to pick up some sunscreen…

You: [fighting to pay attention out of respect for whichever one of your friends brought this girl, but twitching involuntarily as you drift in and out of consciousness]

Awkward girl: [realizing that her tale is going nowhere and looking for a quick way to both end and justify her story] …so I decided to double-knot my shoelace because I didn’t want it to come untied again. [pause] And then I found $5!

OK, before this blog post turns into a story that would require the use of that line—which should be reserved for emergency situations only—I’m going to cut to the chase: when people resort to this phrase, it’s usually out of desperation, and it is almost certainly a lie.

I mean, it is not entirely implausible that a person would stumble upon an unintentionally discarded five-dollar bill, but how often does that really happen?

I never find money. I get excited when I discover a forgotten dollar in an old pair of pants. It helps ease the disappointment of not fitting into them.

A few days ago, however, my luck changed. Big time.

It was a warm and sunny day. (Relatively speaking, that is. In Montana, the first month of spring is usually more like the sixth month of winter.) It was probably too cold for shorts, but I was wearing them anyway. I ignored the red splotches that were beginning to form on the parts of my legs where long pants should have been, focusing instead on the clear blue sky and the greening front lawns.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flash of green with…numbers on it? I stopped short and backed up. I lowered into a crouch and, blinking my eyes in disbelief, picked up not one, but two bills of U.S. currency—a hundred and a twenty. Together, they totaled $120 (see how I did that math in my head?).

I stood up, dumbfounded, and checked my surroundings. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a soul or a hidden camera in either direction. I stuffed the cash in my sports bra and continued on my run, excited and amazed at my great fortune.

I smiled as I pranced along, dreaming about all the stuff I could buy—new running shoes, concert tickets, 120 McChicken sandwiches…the possibilities were endless! I felt like the Publishers Clearing House had just showed up on my doorstep with a giant cardboard check.

With each passing mile, though, my excitement gradually faded into guilt. That wad of cash in my bra—though soaked in my sweat and beginning to chafe my skin—wasn’t mine. I didn’t earn it, and it didn’t seem right for me to keep it.

I’ve always been a worrier. I hate to use the word “pessimist,” but whenever I’m faced with a troublesome situation, I find myself consistently fixated on the worst possible outcome.

When I got into trouble as a kid, for example, my mom would occasionally threaten to send me to bed without dinner. Looking back on it now, I’m pretty sure she never intended to actually follow through on her stern warnings. But as a budding worrywart, I was inclined to prepare for the worst. I found an old shoebox and filled it with an emergency food supply: a Ziploc baggie full of Cheez-Its, a couple of Chewy granola bars, a bag of fruit snacks, and a Capri Sun juice pouch.

Months later, when she was cleaning out my bedroom, my mom found my secret box of snack rations stashed underneath my bed. She felt horrible when I told her what it was, and I’m pretty sure she never threatened to starve me again, but that wasn’t enough to cure me of my chronic worrying.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this $120 belonged to someone who really needed it. I definitely wasn’t thinking “botched drug deal” or “rich, careless lawyer on his way to lunch.” The backstory I imagined was more like “little old lady walking to the pharmacy to get a refill on her heart medication.”

I felt like I was stuck inside an episode of Full House. I needed to go home and have a heart-to-heart with John Stamos so we could figure out the right thing to do and then share an uncomfortably long hug accompanied by a collective “awww…”

But since John Stamos wasn’t answering his phone, I resorted to Plan B: calling my mom. For 20 minutes, we hemmed and hawed over what to do. I could hear my dad in the background yelling, “She found cash? Tell her to go out to dinner!”

My mom offered a slightly more ethical suggestion: that I monitor the lost and found ads in the local paper over the next few days.

Most of my friends thought I was crazy for hanging on to $120 cash. “No one is going to put out an ad for that, Brooke,” they told me. “They’re going to kick themselves for being so dumb, assume the money is gone forever, then suck it up and try to forget about it.”

I wouldn’t budge. I knew that for a lot of people, $120 could mean the difference in making ends meet. I put myself in the mystery money-dropper’s shoes. What if I, a broke and unemployed recent college graduate, had accidentally dropped $120 in the street? Would that be a huge, terrible loss for me? Darn tootin’. Would I at least try to recover it by placing an ad in the local classifieds? You betcha. Why am I suddenly writing like I’m from North Dakota? I dunno.

So listen up all you naysayers who assume that every human being on the planet has the same moral code as Bernie Madoff: guess what I found in the classifieds the following morning (besides an ad for a five-dollar “like new” purple lava lamp)? An ad for lost cash in the amount of $120.

Turns out, the money belonged to a college-age girl who baby-sits for a family that lives in the neighborhood where I found it. She had just gotten paid for the week, and the bills had slipped out of her pocket on the way home. The look of relief and gratitude on her face as I returned the money definitely made me happier than anything I would have bought with it (except for the McChickens). Plus, I knew I had scored some major karma points.

So there you go—a happy ending that surely left you feeling warm and fuzzy inside. Take that, John Stamos.