Friends, I am aware that I owe you a column today, but the fact is, I’m tired.
I’m talking bleary-eyed, clumsy, mumbly, fall-down exhausted.
Two weeks ago I came at you with a whole lot of purple prose about closing cycles and starting fresh and running until I felt alive, and it was all very lovely and hopeful, and frankly, I could punch that lady right in the ear because she forgot about how energy is finite and doesn’t magically appear just because I want my life to have clean narrative turning points.
Yes, I did make it to the beach, and yes I did get myself up early one morning to run the same 5k that I did seven years ago. Brooders, it did not go as I hoped.
I forgot how running on the seashore feels like running uphill both ways. When the tide is relatively high the packed sand is at a crazy angle, so I ran the first half of the race with my left foot higher than my right foot, and the second half reversed, which was hell on my aging knees. And of course, that close to the waterline you can’t run a straight line without soaking your sneakers, so for all you try to focus your gaze on the distance you wind up running a crazy-ass zigzag as you dodge waves. All that being said, I dragged this 5’2 lumpy sack of potatoes and tits I call a body for 3-point-however-many-miles, being passed by elderly veterans, eight-year olds, and taller people strolling.
By the time I made it to the turnaround, tears were falling.
I know every finisher is a winner, but I finished dead last, emphasis on the dead. Crossing the finish line to the condescending cheers of the lingerers who had already eaten all the bagels, I took my complimentary medal, tore off my running shoes, and walked into the sea sobbing like a little bitch.
Not my finest hour.
My younger brother had come along to run the race at his own much less embarrassing pace, and he tried to comfort me, but honestly, what do you say to a grown woman who is feeling the burden of the last seven years in her whole entire body and is wondering if she has a damn thing left for herself after all?
(Truth is, Lil’ Bro was a brick, and didn’t even point out the fact that I had walked into the sea with all my clothes on, then sat in the sand and cried for twenty minutes, then got into his car soaking wet and sandy from head to toe, absolutely wrecking his upholstery. I did buy him a vegan smoothie for his trouble.)
I was tired. I’m still tired. I’m tired and I’m hormonal and I’m feeling very sorry for myself today.
So cheers, this is my column. Hopefully in a couple weeks I will have something more optimistic for you. Until then, enjoy the above picture of a sunrise. Toast me with your vegan smoothies. Skip your workout and eat a brownie. Look into the mirror and call yourself names. Or maybe be kind to yourself? I don’t know.
I’m going to bed.
Theresa Weiler is a whine-at-home-mom with a stalled career and an identity complex. She lives in Detroit with a husband who deserves better and four children who don’t. Follow her on Twitter @SometimesReese.
Sick Pilgrim 