on running.

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

My mamá, she is a runner. When it's a cool summer morning, before ten am when the sun is heating up the sidewalks, she runs. Five miles. Across both bridges. When she gets home from work and it's been one of those days, she runs. When it's Sunday, in the middle of the day, and time is standing still, she runs. It's her thing. 

But it is not my thing. I am not a runner. I enjoy a long game of soccer in the rain and the mud. I love tennis in hot weather, barefoot, until the green cement has chewed up the bottoms of my feet. I will go to the gym when I feel like I need to accomplish something, and I'll turn up my headphones and work out on the machines. 

I tried running for a while, I really did. This summer, I would wake up and run with my mom - the both of us, across the bridges, through the parks. But I always ran home first. I was the first one to tuck my tail between my legs and trod on home. Running by itself is simply not my thing. 

And that's okay. I can accept that. 

But I cannot accept not doing anything. There are some days when I don't want to move. And it feels so good to lay my body under my brown blanket and rub my feet together until I fall asleep. And it feels so good to stay there, listening to the people outside the window. Some days I want this.

And I'll want to take the elevator when I'm able to walk. 

And I'll want to wait six minutes for a bus to take me ten blocks that I'm able to walk. 

And I'll want to avoid checking the mail because it is so far away from the warmth of my bed. 

But I can't do this. I need stairs. I need walks. I need experience. I need to see the city I live in, even if its grey exterior is not what I want. 

I remind myself of this whenever I see someone jogging, and instantly feel bad because I am walking. But I shouldn't feel bad, because I'm doing what is best for me. What works for me.

I'll do what works for me. 

(photo taken when the bus was twenty minutes away, which encouraged me to walk back to my apartment)

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