Welcome back

So, about my last post. I'm still a jerk, but I've spent the last 72 hours moving forward, working on my approach with my tired and grumpy daughter (girlfriend's having a time getting into the first grade groove, it seems). It's exhausted me, much to JBL's chagrin, but he continues to be a saint, as well as a great husband and dad. Hopefully J has benefited, but only time will tell. My struggle continues.

One of the ways I deal with my personal brand of crazy, as I have written many times before, is by running. Whether I am trying to crack the nut of my insecurities, or trying to take the edge off so I am less likely to lash out at those closest to me, running has been a saving grace off and on since I was 18. Unfortunately, I have struggled for the last six months or so to find the usual joy in it. I came in from a long run at the end of March and exclaimed to JBL that my 10-milers were no longer a Big Deal, and that I was considering making five miles my short run for the week. Then BAM! I got the stomach flu, was mentally derailed, and it's been all uphill from there. A place I used to go for happiness and relief in my mind was no longer...well... happy. I dreaded most runs, and was desperately glad when they were over. It sucked.

I may not be out of the woods (and I will never admit out loud if and when I am), but today was GREAT. How can one argue with 65 degrees and perfectly sunny and dry? I picked a challenging 10+ mile route in my local area, and steeped myself in my surroundings as I set off.

I love noting the crazy mix of homes I see on a run. There are 1940's farm houses - some abandoned and decomposing near the road just beyond their rusty iron gates. There are cold war-era brick ranchers, hunkered down with nondescript window coverings and bare-essential landscaping. There are laughable mac-mansions trying in vain to make new money look old, and there are many, many nearly invisible split levels nestled between farmlands and groves of trees.

As I round out mile 5, I am surprised that I still feel like my legs are on auto-pilot...that they are chewing up the road as I float through the sunlight.

It is almost fall, as the weather will attest, and the foliage around me looks nearly spent. Even in the bright, scrubbed-clean air of the morning, I locate few flowers. Black-eyed susans and hydrangeas cough out their last blooms. Roadside cornflowers have lavender blooms as vibrant as Easter, but their stems are withered and brown - sacrificing everything for one last round of sex. Only the crepe myrtles still boast summer color confidently, but everywhere else I note hints of gold and red. Acorns litter the shadows at the edge of the asphalt. Of course I think of J when I see them. She loves a good acorn hunt.

As I reach mile 9, I am the one now nearly spent. I go to that place deep inside where I find much-needed reserves. Push forward from the hips. Pump my arms on the hills. Slow the breathing to match the turn-overs of my feet. I force myself to look again at my surroundings rather than note with dismay the continued incline before me. As I make the last turn onto my street I feel my skin caked with salt and recognize that my legs are slowing down even with all the tricks my mind has served up. Luckily it's all downhill.

I spot J arranging chairs for an unknown activity in the mouth of the garage. I focus intently on the pink of her jacket, not letting myself stop as I wish so desperately to do. She turns at the sound of my clopping Bowerman Series Nikes and waves merrily. I am home. I am happy. And I look forward to doing it again next week. Thank you God....