I like to run. Sorry. If you don’t, that’s cool. You smell better than I do.
Personally, I use running as a way to de-stress, to put life on hold, to think things through...sometimes to not think about things or do things that I should be thinking about and doing. It’s a great way to procrastinate.
“Have you done those ten super important things that you need to do to survive and/or maintain crucial relationships?”
“No, but I went running and I thought about avocados and dinosaurs and my next blog post!!!”
It’s also one of the only times I feel comfortable in my own body. I feel free, and I don’t give a bleep what anyone thinks of me. Everybody has a way of achieving this state of carelessness. Some people do drugs or play video games for 73 hours straight or travel or buy new outfits or lift weights or eat only puréed kale granola goo packets — I run.
None of that was funny. But I feel it’s important for you to have a bit of background for the following story. When I first wrote it, it just began “When I run....”. And it still does, but at least now you know I’m not running because I really need to pee, or because I’m being chased down by low-flying aliens with tasers. I’m just running because I’m an idiot and it’s what I do. Moving on.
When I run with my hair down, especially on days like today where I’m simultaneously running on pure ice, leaping over huge piles of slush, and covering, oh, at least ten miles in fifteen minutes, I feel like a warrior princess. My hair floats behind me, three feet long, catching the sunlight, my eyes sparkle and fizz, and I can feel pedestrians and drivers alike staring after me in awe, all thinking the same thing: “who is that girl, she is so cool, her hair is so beautiful, wow, I wish I could run that fast and have my hair stream behind me like that.” Even old bald dudes think this. I feel totally bold, amazing, daring, alive, spectacular, sensational......
It’s the coolest ever, how I feel.
In actuality, I probably look just a little less glamorous.
You’ve all seen the Lord of the Rings movies, right? If you haven’t, why are you on my blog? Off! Off! Go watch them and come back. Unless you haven’t read the books. Go read the books and then watch the movies and then come back. It won’t take that long if you quit your job and all major responsibilities and most minor ones like showering (it’s okay, you can eat and poop while you’re reading thank goodness, and that’s all that really matters) (NOT AT THE SAME TIME THOUGH PLEASE).
‘Kay. Now that we’re all on the same page — you know when the orcs grab Merry and Pippin and spend like a week running home to Isengard? You know how they have these great flapping long dreadlocks and how the ground shakes beneath their giant trampling feet? You know how they sound like wild pigs and you can almost smell them through the TV screen?
That’s exackly how I look.
DISCLAIMER: I have an all-or-nothing mentality. If you saw me running down the street, here’s what you’d actually see: Red ears and tangly hair and my nose visibly running and my underwear making lines on my butt under my tights (I had to add the part about the tights after fifty re-reads because I don’t want you thinking I wear only underwear when I run, or, like, ever). Probably I look like a slightly mentally unhinged youth. Probably I look like I’m being chased by aliens and like I need to pee. Probably I look like I’m thinking about dinosaurs and avocados and this blog post. Probably true.
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