I got into an abusive relationship with running this fall. I used running to stamp out and escape from ordinary hardships. The result was running too fast, too far, too often. Without control or intention or passion. Eventually, I gave it up because it wasn’t sustainable.
I struggled to eat enough. Believing I couldn’t afford food proffers a lame excuse, though there is some truth to that. Some days I likely gained more calories from drinking than from solid food. I’m not proud of that.
I’m spending the duration of my winter break in Florida right now. I hadn’t run for weeks when I arrived, but I packed two pairs of running shoes and all my tank tops. I run every day. Sometimes I don’t get very far. But that leaves a task for tomorrow.
I have had the pleasure of eating scrambled eggs with cheese at breakfast, guacamole and chips, tempeh reubens with sauerkraut leftover from New Year’s, bleu cheese and strawberry salads, and Indian food. After surviving on the hummus from work for $3 a day, every day here is a fucking feast.
And yet, faced with the start of a new year and opportunities to do things differently, I actually resolved not to make resolutions. Not to beat myself up for failures of character last year. Not to set unrealistic expectations to become a better person this year. I don’t want to be a new person. I want to be more like the person I already am.
This is a continuation. I keep putting one foot in front of the other because I was a runner in 2015, and I’ll be damned if I’m not still a runner when 2017 knocks on the door.