I go jogging most days, usually without any purpose beyond burning of stress and procrastinating. I've been making shorter and shorter loops, hashing out the excuses while the weather gets warmer; I will never compete in a marathon, or be an athlete. But on Saturday night, after debating all day, eating questionable Greek food all night, and enduring an overpriced Irish coffee at a pub while those around me work through pitchers of beer, I got stuck in the rain. Not the usual Vancouver drizzle, the heavy, fat, plopping rain that makes me look like a drowned rat and does nasty things to a duffel coat.
So I ran. I was in dress shoes, had a clutch under one arm, and kept going till I hit my front door. I couldn't see through my glasses, and my footwear bled red streaks over my socks. But I never stopped. It's such a small victory, but knowing I can come through for me when I need me to -- even while slightly tipsy -- makes up for all the undignified panting.
So I ran. I was in dress shoes, had a clutch under one arm, and kept going till I hit my front door. I couldn't see through my glasses, and my footwear bled red streaks over my socks. But I never stopped. It's such a small victory, but knowing I can come through for me when I need me to -- even while slightly tipsy -- makes up for all the undignified panting.
