Um, about three or four years ago I was running one day and I had this sense that running brought out this better person from within me. Someone that could confidently hold a phone conversation and could shower without needing to wait for the water to warm-up. A real he-man! And when I ran I would feel this energy that wasn't mine, it was too great to be mine, that was channeled through me.
Which is kind of cool, I think.
But I think that energy or presence has changed in a way. It went from this empowering thing to what feels like an old school track coach in matching grey baggy sweatpants and sweatshirt. He's got a bushy mustache and a whistle and a clipboard and if he were stripped completely naked he'd just look like a pile of doughy lumps covered in hair. Like a fleshy Frosty the Snowman with less magic and more a creeping suspicion that he's really into spongebaths.
Because, now when I get tired instead of tapping into this other energy, I've just started compulsively slapping myself on the chest and saying, "C'mon boy! C'mon boy!"
Which doesn't make me feel stronger so much as it makes me feel crazy. Like he's following alongside me on his scooter, thinking that hitting me and calling me boy will make me feel better.
Combine that with the fact that all the gnats decided to come out today and now I'm covered with about a dozen of them, I've got a stray snot rocket on my chest, and I'm trying my hardest to pinch back a number 2 that missed the pre-run dump.
But that's life. Snot, sweat, poo, bugs, and swearing at nothing and slapping yourself out on country roads. If you can do something in those conditions and still call it beautiful, still take pride in it and know that even if a bunch of dead Presidents showed up on a helicopter and tried to tear you down you could still feel accomplished and worth something, you're set.
And I think I've only found that in running so far, but it's a start.
Ooooh, I didn't even talk about chafing. You wanna see my inner thighs?
No. You don't.
My inner thighs could adorn the flag of the dreaded pirate ship The Blood Scrunchie. Striking nautical fear in all the...nautical...guys.
When you think of the name Blood Scrunchie do you imagine a death metal band full of nine-year-old girls or do you think of an accordion that gushes blood with every squeeze.
It's okay, they're both acceptable.
No. You don't.
My inner thighs could adorn the flag of the dreaded pirate ship The Blood Scrunchie. Striking nautical fear in all the...nautical...guys.
When you think of the name Blood Scrunchie do you imagine a death metal band full of nine-year-old girls or do you think of an accordion that gushes blood with every squeeze.
It's okay, they're both acceptable.
No comments:
Post a Comment