As somewhere north of a petite flower and closer to a strong German girl, I have a fear of running. It's all the huffing and puffing, the boredom of are we done yet and finally all the stuff that moves enthusiastically when I'd prefer it doesn't. It's the constant monologue in my head that I'm not doing it right, that I'm running too slow, that there must be a better way. Then my thoughts turn to the other people in the room who I'm sure are judging me for my lack of running style. I'm sure that the dude in the back of the weight room lifting and grunting is watching me and horrified at my lumbering "run." Or the twenty something girl on the elliptical talking on the phone without breaking a sweat who I'm sure is using me as a cautionary tale against cake.
But then something magic happens, I look past the city lights in the darkness and I can see my reflection in the window. First I notice and admire the way my pony tail swings back and forth in time brushing my neck. My slow run is steady and even. I pause in my constant criticism and admire the fact that I'm moving, I am moving. I watch as my shoulders ease down from my ears and relax. I am running my race and if I can get out of my head I may just win or at least medal.
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