Trying to Maintain some Dignity

I ran. It's supposed to be good for me, no? I ran. I ran knowing it would be horrible. I ran thinking it would be worse -- in ways; not expecting it to be quite so bad, in others. I ran.

I'm experimenting. I'm trying different things. What will this take, this friendship? How much will I have to invest? In time? In money? In emotion? Today it was emotion.

I ran. I got dressed, like I get dressed, which is never fun. I'm not a runner. I feel like an idiot. I'm not going to go out and buy a nice little running outfit. I'm not that person. But I look like an idiot just the same.

My sweats are too short. My sneakers too white. My hips too wide. My ass too flat (somehow it has taken on the shape of its new land). My body's an amorphous mess.

I ran. It didn't start out quite so bad, despite the ridiculousness I felt. I didn't suffer the embarrassment I thought I might at having to stop after one short block. I continued. As in all things, if you can make it past the worst, you can go on forever. I forced myself. My body kept saying, "I can't. I can't." And my mind plugged on. Ok. That's a lie. It was the other way round. My mind kept getting in the way: "I can't. I can't." But my body plugged on. I hate my body, but my body should really hate my mind.

I kept on. I kept running. And when I finally came around to about the one-mile mark, when I finally came close to achieving my goal, it all fell apart. Some call it self-sabotage. I say it's just the way it is.

I could feel every extra pound on my body. I could feel this newly acquired layer of fat hanging from my bones. I could feel it move with every clumsy step. I could feel the impact on my ankles every time the were so brutally forced to bear the weight. I could feel the blobbishness, the misshapenness, the amorphous mess. I could feel it all. And perhaps it was the endorphins, but I started to cry.

Must I take this humiliation!?! How much must I bear? Will it keep getting worse, before it gets better? I've never had this happen before. Not like this. Is it just a sign of how bad things have gotten, how far away I am from this beast that is my body, this beast that is my mind?

It's bad enough I have to suffer the discomfort. It's bad enough I can't seem to get any pleasure from this effort, from this "doing" for myself. Must I also cry? Must I cry like a pathetic mess of hormones gone bad?

The icing on the cake.

I continue crying for a while. I can't stop. I continue walking, walking and crying, trying to hide my face from any passers-by, walking and crying, crying and walking and hiding. And I come home.

Eventually, you have to laugh.
And if you would have seen my blotchy face inside the elevator mirror, you might have done so. I sure did. This is supposed to make me more attractive? This is supposed to make me feel better about myself? My hair is standing on end, sticking out to every side, and my face looks like a bad allergic reaction -- speckled in red and white blotches resembling hives. Sweet. I break out in a fit of laughter at my own image. I mean, vanity aside, I sure don't look very healthy.

all in due time