I’m having a tough time, folks. I need to process. But audiences demand action, not some sad sack watching raindrops trickle down a windowpane. So it’s time to lace up the old sneakers. (That’s just an expression of course. My sneakers are factory-laced. They also complement my outfit without being too matchy-matchy.)
After stepping outside, do I begin by walking a few blocks, warming up my muscles as fitness experts recommend? Or perhaps walking just once around the block and then straight back home? Hell no, I run.
So it begins. The running. Like a Hoka-clad cheetah released upon the city sidewalks. Though nothing thus far has alluded to it, I was clearly an Olympic marathon hopeful in my day. And that day was yesterday.
Though I live and run in an unholy metropolis, I never once collide with another human being, unless it’s the one person among these millions I’m trying to avoid (Sharon) or the one I’m secretly in love with (also Sharon).
Should anything untoward appear in my path, I hurdle it effortlessly. No puddles or dog-doo for these kicks. My life is an urban steeplechase, and I am whoever is famous for steeplechasing.
When I run, I glisten. I mean REALLY glisten. Not glisten as a metaphor for sweat. That’s just gross.
Need some narrative exposition? Up pops my nearly-but-not-quite-as-attractive running friend to discuss my woes. Despite our lightning pace, we chat breezily, nary a huff nor puff, though my litany of Sharon-related troubles is long indeed.
You’ll never catch me doing things normal runners do. I do not blow snot rockets, stand still at traffic lights, or take a dump in the park while hiding behind the only bush that still has a few leaves left this late in fall. I don’t try to speed up when I see people I know, in the vain hope that they will stop calling me a jogger; instead, I slow down so they can see that it’s me and not simply a beautiful but tortured blur.
Upon reaching home in PR time, do I trudge up the stairs to my front door, barely able to lift my legs? Or do I sprint to the top? Just imagine what a glistening runner who just processed the shit out of their life would do. Look at me now, Sharon.