There's something about the feeling of putting on a pair of running shoes - the sleak way the shoe seems to mold to the person's foot as it glides into its position, cradling the arch; the power behind the pull as the laces are tied, and then double-knotted (keep those bunny ears tight). The seduction of running seems to mount as she stands up, ready to walk outside, and put her legs to good use.
I've never been a runner. I played sports all through school, but running was always used as a punishment when we messed up or played bad as a team. I came to dread the words, "Get on the line!". However, sometime last summer, that all changed. Over the course of this past year, I have learned to love, to even - dare I say - crave - running. As soon as my feet hit pavement (or the treadmill), the control center mentality of my mind shuts off. For three miles, I am free to be just me, not a president of a club, not a frazzled biology major, not a friend, not a daughter...I'm just Kari. My feet are free to dance with my unregulated thoughts. My calf muscles, instead of my shoulders, bear the weight of my world for thirty minutes.
I've come to understand this part of my day as my Prozac for that 24-hours. Instead of popping a pill, I put on my yellow and pink Nike Lunarglide running shoes and take a little break from reality for thirty minutes. I may not run a six-minute mile, but to me, it doesn't really matter. I'm a runner.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment