ophelia rising

Atalanta and the Sons of the North Wind, Lancelot Speed

I’m doing a bit of running, and it’s actually been pretty fabulous. I wasn’t sure how I would feel about it, really, since the last time I ran any length was probably fifteen years ago or so.

The amount of time spent away from physical exertion didn’t sway me any, and I’ve forged ahead bravely upon the running trail. Actually, it’s been more like running/walking, and it’s not particularly a trail, but rather the pavement around my neighborhood. But, STILL. I’m forging ahead.

Realizing how delighted I was in pursuing this, I took myself out and bought some running togs. A running skirt, some running shoes, a pair of running shorts, and a new sports bra.

I have to tell you, though. The sports bra? Does something quite sneaky and decidedly unappealing to the chest area. Whereas before, I looked something like this:

Upon donning the sports bra, I looked more like this:

(But, you know. Without the strawberries).

What’s happened to my knockers? I wondered with growing dismay, gazing at my squished reflection in the bedroom mirror. Not that I (should) care about my figure all that much, in this instance. I mean, really – I’m pounding the pavement with sweat dripping off my shoulders, panting wildly, red in the face, whilst flailing my arms about (as I haven’t gotten my sleek, quick-as-a-cat, lithe yet refined runner’s technique down quite yet).

No, I’m more like a crazed hen, looping and gaggling about, arms and legs akimbo as I try my hardest just to make it to that next mailbox before I pass out completely.

Well. Maybe it isn’t all bad. Sometimes I get a glance of my shadow, and think: Huh. I almost look like someone who sort of knows what she’s doing, somewhat. Put my running skirt on, a colorful top, my cool black shoes, socks that prevent the feet sweats, and a cap with a visor, and I look on top of my game. I look the part I am ready to play – if only my body would indulge me.

Another great thing about running, for me, is that while I’m doing it I tend to get lost in some pretty grandiose plans. And get motivated. And make lists.

1. I will get a job. I will. A good one. I’ll be successful! And fulfilled! And sell my book, while I’m at it! And maybe even finish it, too!
2. I’m going to begin to go to bed early – by 9:30! So that I’ll have plenty of rest, and wake up in the morning invigorated and ready to go. Maybe I’ll even start doing yoga in the morning! And meditate! I’ll be enlightened! Or at least, not so endarkened!
3. I’ll begin to drink green tea again. Really! And my skin will shine with health and vitality! I’ll be healthy! And vital! And my skin will be good! And shiny!
4. From all this running, my muscles will begin to take shape in ways I can only imagine. What’s more, my breasts will begin to look better in this sadistic top! If anyone cares! Which they most likely don’t! Plus, I’ll have more energy to write, what with using all these exclamation points and such!
5. For crikey’s sake, stop making lists! Now you’re doing it in your head, you ass!

And etcetera…

I do think that running helps put life into perspective, to a degree. I find a good deal of clarity, after a run. And I have lots more energy, which feeds into all these ideas I have had in the first place, for which I could never quite get the follow-through together.

But running seems to have changed all that. I do feel I can conquer things. It all seems within reach, if I just work a little harder. And the working harder part feels viable, too, which somehow just didn’t before.

Maybe I’ll get better at it, technique-wise, and run a marathon. Most likely I won’t, but I’m not completely ruling it out. Anyway, I can certainly watch my shadow while I flail away, and dream big, of things I know I can do. If I only just try.