The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Runner's High

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Warm front coming through, bringing along gunmetal grey clouds and the kind of rumbling which stops traffic. I like it, as do many people, but I worry about things like falling trees and unexpected funnel clouds. I've already experienced one massive tornado in my lifetime, I'm not eager to see one again. It was a Category 4, flattening half the city, and if what meterologists say is true, that storms of that calibre have a return cycle of once every fifteen years, we're pretty much overdue. This is worrisome and takes away from the deep affection I have for thunder and lightning. I hold my breath, unconsciously, only realizing I've done so when the storm passes and my body lets go. Residual fear. I don't beat myself up over it. It's one of the only fears I have which makes sense, I think.

Running. I don't do it. I've never done it, not really. Once, when I was twelve, we had to take part in one of those endurance runs which the school mandated as part of a physical fitness program, and, as I've wrote about before, I was last, even passed by the Malaysian kid who had the gimpy leg (a motorcycle accident when he lived in his home country). His name was Sang, and I remember he had a very large head. He had the wobbly head, the gimpy leg, and he still beat me. I still remember the taste of pennies in my mouth, as though my insides had imploded and were bubbling up like lava, how I was sure I was going to have an adolescent heart attack, or a stroke, or an aneurysm. I've never aspired to be any kind of runner since then. I felt it was predetermined that it would never be my thing.

I choose to pursue other goals, but with about the same enthusiasm I had for running. It takes me a while, but as it doesn't often make me think of my untimely demise, I usually get to the destination, even if it takes years.

*Sidenote*-It's not even one o'clock pm and I'm typing in the dark. Yes, the sky is that black. I am right under the cell. I knew that tangerine moon last night was no lie.

M. says I live my life as though it will last forever, and I suppose he's right about that. I very seldom delve into any challenge or new idea with ferocity. I overthink things, often needlessly, but I always feel like I need to do it. Maybe it's my inner Virgo coming through, that analytical side of me which never sleeps, that always makes me move at a glacial pace. Maybe this is why one of the only times that I actually tried to move faster than I wanted to that I thought my mouth was filling with blood. Something about moving quickly equates to suffering in my eyes, and it's not as simple as sloth. I'm not lazy, not really, but I am overly cautious. I move at the pace I find the most comfortable because contemplating each step, to me, means I eliminate the chances of pain and loss. It's twisted, I know.

Which reminds me of the one time I attempted to be spontaneous with regard to physical movement. For some reason, I decided to jump over the flower garden in front of my house. The yard was sloped, but it didn't occur to me that this might be an issue, nor was it much of a thought that I was wearing a pair of chunky Steve Madden shoes which might not have been the best choice for a MacGyver move. The jump was flawless, but the landing was not. As soon as I landed, I heard a crack and felt my leg buckle, which sent me into a roll all the way down to the sidewalk. Of course, I was not alone as my sister and her friends were with me, all of us heading to a bridal shop for a dress fitting for said sister's upcoming wedding. I sat up, stunned, with dirt, grass and dead leaves in my hair and on my clothes, while the lot of them howled. I could barely walk, my foot was swelling up to the size of a football, and my chunky shoe was now looking like a doughnut, all round and puffy. No one took my injury seriously, and five hours later, after dress fittings and my near hysteria with the pain which no one much cared about, it was determined at the hospital that I'd broken my foot. I took this to be a lesson: don't move faster than you want to, it only amounts to humiliation and trouble.

This does not mean that I don't envy the runners who routinely make their way around my city streets in their perfectly fitting spandex, moving in rhythm with the songs on their iPods. I do. I wish I had their strength, dedication and coordination. I hate myself a little for being a quitter, a woman who sees her running in a symbolic way rather than a literal way.

I yearn to know what that mythical 'runner's high' is all about, but really, my take on it is that you'd have to be high in order to run.

***

The storm is over.