During the ups and downs and in-betweens of my 3.1-mile run today, I found myself fascinated by the mental stages I fall in and out of.
The raw brutality of my emotions carves holes through the veils in my mind—lighting fireworks, throwing full-on parties in there. And then, just like that, the movie flips. A remote click from some impulsive watcher, and suddenly there’s a group of pinky-up tea drinkers seated in velvety chairs, discussing skincare routines and getting mani-pedis. It’s a welcome shift from the chaos—calmer, more methodical—but it never lasts.
Because the outside temperature is hot. And that first hill is grueling. And when it gets really bad, I’d love nothing more than to peel my body off one strip at a time, like kids with string cheese.
Not to worry. Not. To. Worry.
I expect to feel like this.
That’s when the word training clicks on in my brain. I am training my body. I am pushing past a limit. And those torturous screams quiet with the gentle reminder that this is something I chose—for good reason.
So I lift my chin and get to work.
And I do. And I do. And I do.
And somewhere in the doing, the clouds part. Through the opening floats an angelic, rainbow-colored unicorn, her eyelashes brushing my cheek, erasing any trace of pain or struggle. Oh, how I wish she’d stay longer. Forever, really. But she’s got to go.
So I find my breath. Feel the pulling of my hips, my thighs, my legs forward—and I move. Just move. With little thought, with very little of anything, the run nears its end. It’s not hard, it’s not easy—it just is.
Like that final sweep of the house before leaving for vacation. You’ve got to do it. So I do. And today, unlike other days, I hit a personal best. And I’m grateful. Because everything you just read? That won’t be happening tomorrow. I get a freaking break.
Yahoo.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 