Seems like you're around stage two in grieving for your total loss of self-respect: anger. Anger directed at Oprah of all people, because what's an easier target than someone who dares to be publicly and unapologetically successful? Anger at the sick and elderly who deign to finish marathons in over four hours just to prove to themselves that having cancer or being over 65 doesn't mean their lives have ended or goals remain unreachable. Anger even at the hipsters in Brooklyn who've appropriated the shoes you totally liked before they were cool. (Unresolved issues much?)

So a marathon is about 26 miles, right? Is that not the definition? A marathon is a length, not a fight to the death? So dude, if you want to run it, shut the hell up, leave the rest of us out of your midlife crisis, and go run it. Writing a whiny article isn't going to help you finish before all those kids you always thought weren't as cool as you. There are tracks and roads and grass all over the place. In the meantime, if you want to participate in something that'll stay exclusive, why don't you take a flying leap off a cliff and see if you can fly farthest?

Is it the aging woman--celebrity or not--pushing herself to run/walk the first marathon of her life that is sullying the idea of athleticism in this country, or is it the man who witnesses such a feat and can't overcome his own bitterness and envy long enough to understand how much that means to her and others and to offer a simple "congratulations"?

why does anyone write to this guy? a woman comes in with a question about her husband and gets some rambling, self-satisfied narcissism. she wants to know what to do, and somehow we digress within the span of two paragraphs to the point where the author is congratulating himself for creativity in--once again--embarrassingly overwritten language. (to say nothing of inaccurate--what neighborhood is this in san francisco that was shaking with gunfire in the 1990s? did it not occur to mr. tennis that other san franciscans might read this?) good god, it's like some horrible joke perpetrated on salon readers where irrespective of the question actually asked, the author looks for a way to insert the same stock answers and decidedly uncreative hyperbole. your husband is unhappy? well, good luck all the same, but let's talk about me.