The Day the Universe Said “Nope”

Mark and Jessa had never been described as “competent” in the same sentence.

Unless that sentence was, “Mark and Jessa are competent at turning every simple situation into chaos.”

Individually, they were manageable.

Together, they were a cosmic event.

So naturally, they decided to run a 5K.

It started when Mark woke up one morning with a burst of unrealistic ambition, the kind caused by watching one too many inspirational YouTube videos at 2AM. He burst into Jessa’s apartment without knocking — something he did so often that she no longer screamed; she simply assumed it was either him or a raccoon.

“We need to improve our lives,” he declared dramatically, as though he were launching a presidential campaign.

Jessa, who was spread-eagle on the couch eating cereal straight from the box, replied, “Define… improve?”

“Become healthier. Stronger. Inspirational. The kind of people who wake up early and drink water voluntarily.”

Jessa stared at him. “Mark, we overslept so many times our alarms stopped bothering to ring.”

“Exactly!” he said. “That’s why we’re doing a 5K charity race this Saturday.”

She blinked. “Mark… today is Saturday.”

“Perfect,” he said. “We’ll just start today!”

This was their third mistake of the morning. The first was Mark bursting into her apartment. The second was Jessa agreeing.

The Preparation (aka The Disaster Before The Disaster)

Mark showed up wearing neon green shorts so tight they looked like he’d been laminated. His shoes were brand new, still squeaking loudly enough to scare pigeons.

Jessa arrived wearing black leggings, mismatched socks, and a headband with plastic cat ears “for speed.”

People stared. A toddler waved timidly like they were mascots at a parade.

They stretched — or at least attempted to. Mark tried touching his toes and nearly folded himself into a pretzel. Jessa attempted a lunge and toppled sideways into a trash can.

The warm-up alone convinced three spectators to donate extra money to the charity out of pity.

The Race Begins (and Immediately Regrets It)

The starting horn blasted.

Mark took off like a man running from a past-due electricity bill.

Jessa sprinted two steps, tripped over absolutely nothing, and face-planted into a bush.

Mark turned to check on her, tripped over her legs, and catapulted directly into her. They rolled together like two badly coordinated tumbleweeds.

By the time they got up, half the runners were already gone. A dog in a tiny vest trotted past them with more dignity than they would ever achieve.

But they persisted.

Mostly because a photographer pointed a camera at them, and they didn’t want their defeat immortalized.

Halfway Through, the Universe Intervenes

At the two-kilometer mark, they were sweating, wheezing, and reconsidering all their life choices. Mark kept insisting he could “see the light.”

It was the sun. Jessa pointed this out repeatedly.

“I’m dying,” Mark panted dramatically.

“No, you’re dehydrated,” Jessa said, handing him her water. He took a sip, gagged, and said, “Why is it warm?”

“Because the sun exists, Mark.”

Then came the moment that changed everything.

An elderly man — maybe 70, maybe older, maybe immortal — jogged past them backwards, drinking a bright purple smoothie.

He didn’t even look winded.

He waved cheerfully. “Keep going, kids!”

Kids.

They were being motivationally pitied by a backwards-jogging smoothie grandpa.

Jessa stared at Mark.

Mark stared at Jessa.

Together, they said:

“…We can’t let the smoothie guy beat us.”

The Final Kilometer (aka: The Pain Zone)

They kept going.

Very slowly.

Painfully slowly.

At one point, a snail probably passed them, but no one had the heart to mention it.

Mark tried breathing exercises he learned from a meditation app, but he kept inhaling bugs.

Jessa attempted positive affirmations but could only manage, “I am… trying?”

But the important thing was: they didn’t quit.

Every step hurt.

Every breath felt dramatic.

Every muscle screamed like a soap opera actor being written out of the show.

But still — they ran.

Or jogged.

Or stumbled.

Or possibly floated through pure adrenaline and shame.

The Finish Line, and the Victory That Wasn’t Supposed to Be One

They crossed the finish line last.

Not second-to-last.

Not “almost last.”

Last.

Twenty minutes after the race ended.

The person in charge of timing had already begun packing up. Someone was holding a balloon arch that had blown loose. A volunteer was eating the last donut.

But when Mark and Jessa limped across the painted line, people still clapped.

Because they finished.

Despite everything — the falls, the drama, the existential crisis, the cat ears — they finished.

Mark collapsed onto the grass.

Jessa collapsed beside him.

Neither bothered to move for a full five minutes.

Finally, Jessa said, “We’re disasters.”

Mark nodded. “But we’re disasters who finished something.”

She smiled. A real smile. “Guess that’s progress.”

The Lesson

You don’t need glamour.

You don’t need perfection.

You don’t even need coordination or matching socks.

You just need to keep going — even if you look ridiculous doing it.

Progress is progress, even if you limp across the finish line sweating, laughing, crying, and covered in grass.

And sometimes the biggest victory is simply refusing to quit.