Running

Is there anything so delicious, dear reader, as a shower after a sweaty run?

Ah- I see your querulous eyebrow, my loyal or imagined reader. I see your question. To answer, you are absolutely right. It is even more delicious to pour yourself a glass of golden, dewy, belgian triple ale to take into the shower.

Oh?

That wasn't your question??

Oh. . . I see. You're confused by the subjects of running and your erratic writer in the same trajectory?

Well, I have a confession to make. Another Absolute to withdraw. I have, yet again, found myself on the brink of hypocrisy. Thank Goddess we all change with time. I, the sometimes-hater of all things running (oh, who am I kidding? The every-before-now-times-hater) have succumbed to the sweaty grave of throwing oneself about in the july heat of central park.

How did this happen? Huh.

I have a lot of memories of running. Rather, I have a lot of memories of wheezing, and burning, and being last in class to finish a mile. I'm clumsy and awkward and large. And I like things like hiking. And walking. And occasionally lifting weights or karate. Running has only rarely come across my radar as a possibility, and honestly, it has existed mostly as a punishment.

As in, 'I'm feeling fat and ugly and that means I'm bad, so I should feel bad. I know! I'll go running through Easttown at 5AM.' *Cough* Yeah, at the time I think I actually believed I was going to stick with my flagellistic plan and run and run and lose weight and not feel so terrible. It was a poorly crafted plan.

Or there was the time before that when my mother and I were members of a gym and would use the running machines. God were those awful.

I have many times explained to people that 'I am just not a runner'. I would accept that maybe, possibly, for some people running might bring a speck of enjoyment (or at least not be complete and utter torture), but I was just not one of those crazies. From time to time a person might respond that maybe I just didn't have the right information before trying to run- maybe I hadn't warmed up enough, or stretched enough (uh- warming up? STRETCHING?!? HAH!! I uh, I mean, of course I, uh. . . well, no- it's just that I just hate running. Period.).

And then. Enter a period of time filled with bad body thoughts. It seems to me that we all have these periods from time to time, but it has been a long time since I felt this badly for this lengthy a time. So I thought about what to do.

I was feeling fat and shameful, and like my body was a useless sort of sack. The curves that I'm usually so pleased with- the softness that I mostly love, because it is me and I am it- began to be loathsome. I'm a big girl. I'm tall and I'm curvy, and rounded in some places and though most people are terribly surprised to learn it, I weigh more than 200 lbs.

Most of the time, at the very least, I like me. I like my belly and my breasts and my feet and my thighs (ok, well, my thighs are maybe something I feel neutral about more than positive, per se, but I'm imperfect, so. . . ) you get the point. My tummy is a part of me, so why would I actively engage in hating it?

Lately, though, it's been a struggle. I added a few more pounds to my frame. Happily added -eating ice cream and drinking beer with the Boy- but pounds nonetheless. And I've gotten a little squishy about the edges. Usually when I look in a mirror I can see the imperfections with a reasonable head and still appreciate what is nice, but of late all I've been able to look at is my profile, and how un-flat my stomach is. And how squiffy I'm becoming. And how if I continue this way I'm not only going to be unlovable, but I will have to smash my mirrors and eat bran for the rest of my days.

I hate bran.

I was unhappy, so I did my usual. I examined my life to see if there was something to change to create a greater sense of peace. I just wanted to be able to look in the mirror and be proud. The thing is, I don't think I'm actually eating that much bad food. Yes, I do drink beer, AND I enjoy ice cream from time to time, but this isn't really new. It's just more of the same. I haven't added much weight, so that's not really a concern either, but I felt a need to feel good in my body.

And a funny thought occurred to me: Maybe I should start running.

At this point, I have gone running the past six days in a row, which I learned today may be a bit over-doing it. It's been so fun, though, that I haven't wanted to skip. I feel strong and accomplished. There's no burning, no coughing, no essence of self-punishment at the edges. There's me, and there's my competition with myself, and there's my renewed respect for what my body can do all mixing together and busting out through the seams of a glowing smile on my face.

I feel elated. I feel strong and capable. I love the feeling of growth. And I know, I know, I should take some recouperation time to let my body adjust. I will, I will. That's tomorrow and maybe even Friday.

It's amazing to become older and watch the shades of gray mince amongst the world. I have made so many absolute statements- I will never date men again, I will never speak to ___ again, I could never be a runner, I could never date a meat-eater, or eat meat myself (ok, I'm still a veggie for now and the foreseeable future)- I love living through those times into this one, where I am given the opportunities to discover who I am in different situations, with all their complexities and chaos and wonder. It's beautiful to be able to flow with change. Which is not to say that it's easy, but when it happens I am pleased.

Who knows what obscenity I'll be up to next. . .

A Poem

To love you is such a simple thing
I open my eyes, I breathe, and there it is
smiling into my eyes,
with its lovely fingers twining about mine

Some moments it is so big there is a swelling
in the space behind my navel,
and my belly feels full of warmth and knowing

and a poignant not-knowing

I look at our love
and I know I cannot know its birth

I don’t remember if it lay in the shallows, waiting,
between my toes,
while I looked for you without knowing your face

I don’t remember if it sat, curled and sleeping,
somewhere within me,
or if it tagged along one midwinter morning,
when I was too busy to notice a small shift in the wind

Sometimes I am curious,
as it stares at me and I smile at it,
and I wonder if I am allowed to ask our love
a few polite questions-

I wonder if emily post would argue,
or if our love could speak what it would say,
and how

I wonder if it would speak with the voice of divinity,
a rumbling vibration of velvet or stars

would it be lighter than wisps of candy cotton,
soaring through the space between us-

I wonder if it would say anything at all,
or if it would just take my hand in the gray morning
and hold it

gently.

Ho-Hum

At this particular moment in time, I feel exhausted.

My uterus has been stuck in a perpetual ache for the last seven days. My right flip-flop, previously purchased for the rare price of $2 at a local Target, has worn through in a patch at the heel, subjecting my tender skin to the harsh realities of New York pavement- glass, rubble, refuse. My plans to attend Shakespeare in the Park tonight have been flouted by the idiosyncrasies of the virtual ticketing process. And perhaps most tiresome of all is the absence of my most favorite person.

The sky has been particularly beautiful today- a sort of creamy landscape above the building tops, accented by wispy clouds and bright sunshine. There is nothing actually wrong in the world today, and there is even quite a bit right with it, but I feel wistful despite myself. I feel like curling up and sleeping for a few days, which is so unlike me. I crave comfort- a delicious bath, a rich chocolate delicacy, a gentle touch to the center of my back.

The prospect of socializing sounds positively dreadful. So does the prospect of traveling across and up town to my bed. My bed which is covered in the various leftovers and paraphernalia from the last few months of sleeping away from home- stopping by only for deposits and withdrawals from my wardrobe or bookshelf. I am as yet unwilling to put the things away, for though they constantly irritate me with their disorder, I loathe the idea of occupying a bed solo, with only the help of two teddy bears.

Perhaps I ought to just buy a beer or two, bring 'em home, and watch a few movies. Maybe I’ll finish Doctor Who.