The Early Dawn Warrior.

Where was I? Oh right. Hearing loss. Perhaps I will start rotating ear buds. Alternate side ear parking. Worth a shot anyway.

I resign myself to the right earbud, again, as it’s all I have. The Lumineers croon in my ears and I find a jog. A shuffle, really. It always takes me a moment to find my breath out here. I don’t tell anyone this, of course, because I’m embarrassed. I feel oddly winded. Not a lack of stamina but some sort of potent anxiety. A laundry list of all the things I have to do swirling around my overtaxed brain. I drag a long shaky breath over my teeth and self-talk my way forward.

I look up and there he is. Every morning I see him jogging. Well-worn gray sweat suit on his lean frame. Beanie pulled low over his ears. Silvery stubble outlining his strong jaw. I want to stop. I want to yell. I want to tell him that he inspires me. An act of pure madness. Of arrogance. Of ignorance. I don’t know his situation. Yet, I see him. Every morning. No matter the weather, he jogs. He, shuffles. I think I know his house, his home but also, I don’t really know.

It’s a guess. An approximation that I’ve gathered from cautious observation. Careful not to look too long. Too obviously.

Is that his porch where he laces up his old Nike’s? Is that his kitchen window, framing the place where he has a sip of black coffee and quietly slips out the door? Is that his entryway where he leaves loved ones to drift through our neighborhood? Perhaps he leaves a home quiet and empty. Perhaps that is why he takes to the streets. Restlessness. Loneliness. Unease.

Every morning I see him but he doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know me.

I feel like I know him. This early dawn warrior. Training for everything and for nothing. He is alone but something about him doesn’t feel lonely. His posture is near perfect. A determined gait they would call it. He jogs as if he has nowhere to be and also, a destination. I yearn to speak with him. To tell him about my ambitions. My desire to keep running. To keep on keeping on. I want to tell him how I injured my knee and had to walk, ambling behind him like a toddler newly familiar with the process.

I want to ask if he can always breathe or if he struggles too. I want to ask everything and nothing at all. I keep my distance.

I used to belong to a gym. I ran outside but mostly, I ran inside. On a treadmill. I have all of these funny memories of the gym. Not ha-ha funny. Awkward funny. Maybe even traumatizing funny.

I recall watching with horror as my Airpod flew under a treadmill. I had this bizarre and nonsensical sensation of embarrassment. Why was I humiliated? Everyone always seemed so fucking put together. That’s why.

Matching spandex and perfect ponytails. The latest water bottle and sneakers and a perfect significant other to “gym” with at all times.

I was always a hot mess and somehow, the wayward Airpod felt like another demerit held against me. Another reminder that I never belonged. I’m not meant for fancy fitness centers. I’m meant for basement gyms. Spaces filled with pocked ancient mats that are strongly fragranced with the odor of old socks and unwashed hair.

I’m meant for places that don’t have classes and miscellaneous equipment that needs a YouTube tutorial. I’m meant for spaces that are too warm or too cold and altogether ill-fitting. I’m meant for places that feel comfortable because they are comfortable. They are well-worn couches and that pair of jeans you can’t bear to give away.

That has always been my destiny. I would never find that lost Airpod because I will never return to that place of lavender scented steam and pristinely white towels. I will never pull Lululemon up my juicy thighs. I will be gifted a certificate to render a pair of their famous leggings nearly free and I will still not relent.

I will never crave the attention of fellow gym goers. I will choose to remain anonymous. I will fade into the background of another space that is not this one. I will not follow up or inquire. I will never return to apologize to the painfully young front desk staff. I will abandon the notion that my Airpod is findable and accept that it is lost forever. 

I will buy a new pair.

I will acknowledge that my place is not here, but mostly elsewhere, and definitely more so on a mostly dark street with an unknowing companion.

I will find myself on those roads many mornings and many evenings and many afternoons in between. I will jog away my stress and run away my sadness and walk away my worries and train for races and confrontation and life.

I will take that time and make decisions about what to do in a relationship and what to say at work and what outfit is perfect for that occasion. I will choose a restaurant and a meal to make and a friendship to keep. I will ponder my parents’ aging and then, my own lifecycle. I will consider the fast pace at which my niece and nephew are growing up and all the ways in which my significant others have seemingly been frozen emotionally, at an age that betrays the reality.

I will contemplate my oxidized hair color and forehead wrinkles and overgrown cuticles. I will concede that it’s time to donate my favorite cardigan and invest in new Mary janes and drink less coffee and consume more water.

I will pledge to write more and cry less and work to make a difference in something or someone, somewhere. I will burn the lyrics of songs to the soft edges of my heart and ignore the soreness in the curve of my foot arch.

I will listen to ambulance sirens and car alarms, opening garage doors, and dogs barking. I will hear my gentle footsteps and early workers running stop signs and the local coffee shop opening its door.

The universe will be mine, or at least the world, or at least my town, or at least these streets. I will own this teeny corner of this place and answer to no one and cower, never. For thirty-two minutes I will be the woman I’ve always wanted. For thirty-two minutes I will be self-assured and confident and living with no regrets. For thirty-two minutes I will be the most me I ever am. Always.

x

L.