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So, I'm taking a class about management this semester.
It was a requirement and it fills some hours, so whatever, yo.
This week has been kind of lax on assignments in my classes, so last night I got down to some of the first work in a bit. My assignment was about goals.
Specifically, I was to write about a time that I had focused on a set, specific goal and succeeded. No problem, right? No big deal.
Except it was. It is.
I didn't have an answer. Not at all. I thought and thought and came up completely at a loss. There was no time I'd worked and lost ten pounds to fit in a dress, no time I'd trained and slaved and crossed a finish line or worked by Lincolnian candlelight to finish a task. I mean, I finished high school, but seeing as how I'm not the subject of a premature-motherhood reality show, that doesn't really stand out.
I seriously felt like a one hundred and heirbferlcdnefity pound pile of marshmallow fluff.
Is everyone this inept? Is something missing inside me, some sort of drive? Is there a pill I can take that will make me focus and make me successful?
Yesterday I ran for the first time in seven weeks.
Seven, according to my Nike+ app.
Seven is a lot.
To be fair to myself, it was mostly justified. I had taken about a week off some weeks back when I fell off a sidewalk (don’t ask. Just don’t.) and landed squarely on my left anklebone. Seriously, it was a miracle I didn’t piledrive some bone into the pavement.
So that was my excuse for lo these many weeks.
But I realized over the last week how little I’ve been doing in the way of being active and going, and I was more than a little disgusted with myself. So I ran.
I ran a little over two miles, and I didn’t die. I even ran the majority of the time. I’d say it was a solid restart. And my ankle hurt not at all, so I think it’s safe to say it’s healed.
If one more person asks me if it’s “hot enough for me,” I think I may dig out my own eyeballs with a spoon.
It’s true. In case you’ve ever wondered, people really do say shit like that. Stupid, silly clichés that mean absolutely nothing. I never used to believe it, but it’s true.
And to be fair, I think that being from Mississippi means that I have more tolerance for heat than you. Why? Because humidity. You can be hailing from 6,000 degree pottery kiln sand covered Sahara, but have you ever been able to SEE the air move as you breathe because it’s so thick? Our heat is thermal gluey paste, and no matter what your issues are….humidity.
I ran the other day in just such heat. I have never been so close to dying. It got to this one stretch of road where corn rises up on either side, blocking breezes and emanating heat of life and hiding Malachi, and I was pretty much ready to hang things up. The only thing that kept me from just collapsing onto the blacktop was how much hotter it was than everything else. I even considered running as a method to make air blow into my face. Somehow that didn’t quite work out.
Speaking of running, I think I want to find a late-2013 marathon to do.
Also, here are some pretty pictures of waterfalls. These are just from my phone – josh has good ones from the camera that we may see…someday.
I’m actually a bit proud of myself. I have been running consistently for over a month. This is kind of a big deal…for me, if for no one else.
I’m not pretending to be great. I’m really slow and normally I hate the entire time I’m out there in the ground – to – galaxy humid soup air, but I feel so great when I do it. Endorphins or whatever, I like it. I count the hours until I can go again.
Josh doesn’t get it. He says I’m overdoing, which I’m not. I recognize muscle twinges and I don’t push myself too hard. I quit if I need to. It’s just something I enjoy.
Lucy likes it too. A friend loaned me her jogging stroller until her new baby could use it (which is pretty soon…I probably should try and get one of my own. They’re just so expensive.) and Lucy and I spend chunks of time waving at birds, cars, rocks, cornfields.
I really want to get into it, you know? I want to run events and know what the shit a power gel is. To think of my shoes in terms of miles instead of colors.
I was out of my boiled water/baking soda concoction, and I thought with all of the grime my hair has been encountering every day since I started trying to be a runner, maybe my hair should get a good stripping once every couple of months.
However, two things happened:
One, I have apparently forgotten how to keep stuff out of my eyes, because OH MY GOD, blindness.
Two, I was instantly overwhelmed with regret as I rinsed my hair and heard that squeak that accompanies shampooed hair. My stomach – no joke – spasmed like I had just gone over a big sphincter-tightening hill and I immediately slathered my whole head with conditioner.