Sometimes you just need to run for your life.
I am in no way a proficient runner. With bad posture, a titanium rod running the length of my left femur, and two screws lodged solidly in my knee, the act of running is a burden and a continuous inventory of the premature malfunctioning of my twenty-six year old frame. Add to this the fact that I am deceivingly out-of-shape for my slight and wiry stature, and one might wonder why I would run at all.
To clarify, I do not run on a regular basis. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I have ran in the last year.
But sometimes, running is the only option.
* * *
The last few weeks have presented a number of frustrating challenges and realizations for myself and for my family, and processing these issues has proven to be a difficult tribulation. My normal methods of analysis when approaching the challenges of life include using logic, reason, and a utilitarian review of the costs and the benefits. But it seems that every time I believe that I have mastered an obstacle through logic, a new snare appears. This cycle of cat and mouse has been especially antagonizing for the past few weeks and this week my capacity for logical alleviation was exceeded.
|What I think I look like|
After feigning composure throughout the evenings sequence of mundane activities, I saw an opportunity to relieve my anxious cells of their pent up zeal as my wife prepared for bed. I told her that I was going for a run, and she gave me a look that was equal parts suspicion and curiosity. It was clear to her that something was amiss. Why else would I want to run?
* * *
Standing in the cool spring air, I meekly stretched with ignorant inefficiency, then began my trot to the soothing sounds of Bon Iver through my headphones. Unsure of my route, destination, or goal, I padded through the winding suburban streets, trying to clear my head and distance myself from the emotions that were wreaking havoc on my psyche. I egged my stiff legs on, past their initial pleas for rest, focusing on the beat of the music rather than the soreness of my joints. I let problems rattle about my head, disallowing my brain to latch on to the issues, thereby removing the temptation of emotional anxiety.
When I finally stopped running, I was on a vaguely familiar street, so I began walking down the road. In high school I was taught to never stop moving after a run, lest you cramp up. I walked for a few blocks, until I found another vagueley familiar street and began my return journey. By the time I was within sight of the house, my whole body was alive with the burning sensation of pure exhaustion. I harassed the last reserves of energy left in my being and I clomped the final steps up to the house, arriving at the front steps. I pulled out my notebook and penned the finl remains of my anxiety into this essay.
I cannot say that my frustrations are now obliterated, but at least they are manageable.
...At least for now.