Pressing on

Reb. Mary is a runner. I am not. I am just someone who had enough fat-aphobia to try to act like a runner, every day if I possibly could. I couldn't hold my own in even a 5K where there were real runners, but I could still get myself red and sweaty and more in control of the horrific possibility of my dress size going up.

Exercise has never felt good to me. I don't get second winds, or that endorphin rush they talk about. And when I imagine what my life would look like on a rainy day digital treadmill readout, I get sad. I see this looooooooooooooooooong course marked out in the red dots, and I'm so much closer to the beginning than the end (DV), and I'm already dripping sweat and dying to quit.

I imagine 15 years (!!) from now when I will maybe, finally be crumpled in the grass, sticky forearms on my sticky knees, too tired for a drink, feeling how hot my face is blazing, wishing for a breeze, waiting for the strength to get to the shower and stand in the icy water and wash it all away. Only thinking, "It's over. It's over."

I know all lives are hard and every time of life is hard. But this feels like that heavy part where I haven't even reached the middle, and all I can think about is being done.