After placing books back on the shelves, straightening pillows and cushions, and picking up several stray, hardened bunny turds from the carpet, I plop onto the couch, cross my legs, open the same Google Doc as yesterday, delete the previous day’s words, and command myself to write.
“Lookie here,” I tell myself. “It’s quiet. Everything—for the moment—is done. Now get to it.”
Rarely does the Neanderthal chest-pounding—you. write.—work for me.
I’m not a puppet that dances at the snap of a finger or a beckoned call. Nay. I require a firm grip and a loosening of fingers along the peak of my shoulder. A few sweet nothings. A motivational montage—Rocky training to fight Ivan Drago, his hardest opponent according to Google. And a morning coffee: two shots of espresso, steamed heavy cream, a dash of agave.
The grinding of the beans—that notorious high-pitched whine, like a Mustang firing up paired with a tea kettle at peak boil—is not for when the house is quiet, and three others are still cocooned in sleep.
I’m running.
With Joanne visiting—an avid runner—I’ve got a buddy. More than a buddy, actually. A pace horse. A “keep going” partner, minus the butt pat, coaxing me forward when, left to myself, I’d walk.
We did four miles yesterday, hovering in the 12–13 minute range. As I drifted in and out of a too-greased stomach, doubled over with heartburn, I listened to Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. The line landed: Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. And what came to mind was the familiar strap of muscle or tendon tightening a few inches below my hip—the one that shows up on long runs and stays.
Before yesterday, I thought about the Star Wars half-marathon at Disney World. The early-morning hobble through unopened parks. Loud music, cheers, water stations everywhere. I kept moving even as my hip seized like an un-oiled gear, practically collapsing inches from the finish. The bento box of snacks they handed me as I rolled out of the way—paired with total stillness—was one of the loveliest experiences of my life.
And now I’m back. And it’s back. And I’m toeing the line of how to respond to pain.
Enough of that.
It’s Super Bowl day, baby. The day football, food, and advertisements reign supreme. On the stove and in the Instant Pot: spaghetti sauce, Alfredo sauce, and Zuppa Toscana—an Olive Garden copycat. Also on the menu: Caesar kale salad, French bread, and spinach artichoke dip.
It’s the pre-everyone-arrives time. The calm before the storm. My favorite.
Fast forward: everyone’s gone, the confetti has fallen in San Francisco, and the champions of champions are the Seattle Seahawks. Woo hoo!
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 