It’s hot out. Hotter than I realized it would be. Spending most lunch hours leaning over my keyboard, I don’t expend a lot of energy wondering about the midday weather. I didn’t have the energy to run this morning and so, I decided to leave it to now. Running later is an option, but that would mean sacrificing additional packing time or decompression moments. It feels more efficient to run now and I’m a sucker for economical decisions.
When I made this choice, I didn’t envision speed drills in eighty-five degrees. To be fair, I’m not sure I thought about the weather at all. I certainly didn’t consider it when I packed thicker running tights and a 100% cotton V-neck t-shirt. I’ve made worse decisions by a landslide, but I can’t say I’m thrilled with these choices at present, as sweat pools by the bottom of my sports bra and in my crotch region.
I have baby wipes and deodorant and all the accoutrements one would require making oneself presentable following a sticky, steaming jaunt, but my face is assuredly going to be the color of an overripe tomato for an hour or so. And, even allowing myself to cool down properly, I will continue to sweat in the comfort of the blasting air conditioning.
The track is quieter today, more so than it usually is during the week, but that’s unsurprising. The colleges have mostly broken for the summer and it’s likely that others researched the temperature before they elected to take a lunchtime stroll. Not that the high heat stops people. To the contrary, I’m often burning with jealousy, while observing work-clothing clad men and women walking around the track or the perimeter of my office building with ease, not a bead of visible sweat to be found.
There is what appears to be a coach and a student athlete running drills in the corner of the track furthest from me, and then, just two others jogging laps. There is something freeing about this reality, this serene status. My brain can more adeptly tune into the pattern of my footfall and the laboring of my breath.
Feeling my watch vibrate, I swing my arm to bring its face into view. Notification of a new Outlook email. I pause for an instant and then continue my steady stride. Forty-five minutes. That’s the length of time I’ll be away from my computer. Less than one hour. Surely whatever it is can wait for that period. And still, I pull my phone free from my waist belt and open my email app.
Unimportant. Well, not entirely so, but assuredly not requiring my attention at this precise moment. I endeavor to make a pact with myself for the second time today. I tell myself that people, my colleagues, always take their lunch hour. And also, coffee breaks. They give themselves the freedom to disconnect and breathe. To regroup. I should do the same. I shall do the same. It’s healthier. Wiser. Better for everyone.
And still, insecurity eats at my gut. What if I miss something? What if I miss something and that miss is what unsettles everything? What if I miss that thing that is the thing that I cannot afford to miss? Forty-five minutes I whisper to myself in a chastising tone.
Scrolling through the ‘gram last night, I saw that whatshisname posted about a Hamptons trip with his new girlfriend. This was just after the posts celebrating their recent vacation- some proprietary island excursion, chock full of watered-down cocktails and stunning sunsets. Even in the short time we spent together, he gave me so much shit for looking at my email. I was told no less than thirty times that I wasn’t curing cancer. Well, no shit bro. If I was curing cancer I’d feel a lot better about myself and I’d probably be making a lot more money. Anyway, I didn’t feel motivated by his criticism. If anything, I’m certain I dug my heels in further. Looked more often. I’m not proud of this fact, but it is true. I think I wanted support. Not for my relentless anxiety-fueled email checking but generally. I wanted to feel like someone got it. IT. I wanted him to say “I know it’s a lot, but I think it would be better for you if you gave yourself just a little break. Tiny.”
This is all a distant fantasy, of course, but I feel it as sure as anything.
Eight minutes has passed and while I’m still in my warmup, I’m starting to hit my stride. Feel my stride is maybe the more appropriate description. I’m moving, albeit slowly, from tin woman to something a little more comfortable. It doesn’t hurt that sweat is a pretty effective lubricant. The strong sun is warming my part and pinking my cheeks. My legs are feeling looser, as are my arms, swinging fluidly by my side.
The air is thick, but I imagine my body cutting through it with each step, making a Leah sized hole in the stratosphere. Then I imagine each slice of me lined up, like a paper doll chain, gently pulled apart, just enough to witness the multitudes.
My watch beeps to signal the end of my warmup and the beginning of an interval. As I race the long side of the track, I hear my breath quicken and feel my heart beating a sturdier rhythm in my chest.
Bum bum bum bum.
Any distant ambient noise, traffic and lunch goers, turns into a gentle buzz. White noise. Two minutes passes in what feels like an eternity of sorts, my watch beeps again, and I slow my stride to something conversational. I’m careful to pull air through my nose slowly, in two segments, and release through my mouth in a solid, loud exhale.
My overfilled brain has released its hold on my psyche and instead, I am serving the rhythm of this workout. Two minutes on, two minutes off. Two minutes on, two minutes off.
Before I know it, my watch buzzes, a little more aggressively, and it’s time to cool down. As I slow my pace to a moderate jog, I pull my phone out of my belt again, scrolling through countless notifications. The desire to explore at this moment has dissipated and I’ve resigned myself to these moments of disconnection.
Fuck whatshisname and also, all the people who need something from me.
This feeling of release is delicious and while I know it won’t last, I feel myself smiling for a moment. I slow to a walk and lick salt from my top lip.
Happy Global Running Day, indeed.
X
L.
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