The other day I tried to run.
Again.
I have been trying to run for a few weeks now. Somehow I seem to have injured my right hip. Or leg. Or foot. Or maybe all of them. All I know is that when I try to run I can only get a few steps along before I am in shooting pain.
The first time this happens I pretty much ignore it and run anyway. I wind up limping.
I wait a day.
I try again.
Same thing.
Still, I am not going to give up. Beside who wants to stop anything anyway?
Son says, “Mom. You have to rest it.”
I ignore him.
I get up the next day to run. I can tell just by the way I am walking I should probably not run. I put on my running gear anyway.
Son is up. He sees me in my running gear. Son says, “Mom. You are NOT going running!”
“Oh, just a little running.” I say. And I walk out the door.
Halfway up the hill to Prospect Park I am thinking: Wow. This is serious. I may have to actually stop running.
I stop for a minute and walk.
Then I think: Nah. And I keep going.
When I get back I decide to let it rest for a few days.
I try again.
Son sees me. Son says, “MOM! You cannot run yet! A few days rest is not enough. You are really going to hurt yourself!”
Somewhere inside me I know he is right. But still, I cannot stop.
I go out there anyway.
This time I have to stop like 4 times. While in the park I am wondering if I am going to have to walk the whole way back. I decide this would take much too long and I just run through the shooting pain anyway.
When I come in limping son is shaking his head in I-told-you-so disgust at me.
“I KNOW!” I say. And I walk into my room and shut the door.
Really, I don’t know what I am going to do. Oh ok, maybe running is a little bit of an addiction but keeps a girl like me not too tightly wound. Discharged. Generally, less. And without it I am pretty sure I will get all wiggly AND I will go bonkers. And so will the people around me.
“Do more yoga.” Friend 1 says.
“Yeah, yeah.” I say. “But yoga is not running. Yoga is yoga.”
I circle around my apartment trying to figure out how to force my body to heal. Now.
Nothing is coming. I decide to do more yoga. I will do more yoga and I will only run twice a week.
I tell son of my plan.
Son says, “Mom. You have to not run at all.”
I know I should listen to him. He had an actual trainer and was on the Cross Country Team. Plus all that Ultimate Frisbee running around hoopla.
“Sorry.” I say. “I cannot stop.”
I can tell he is at his son-wits-end.
“Anyway, I think I am getting better.” I say.
Son raises a son eyebrow.
“Ok.” I am lying.” I say. “It still really hurts.”
Then I say, “Maybe I will try a week off.”
Son looks at me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks right into my eyes.
“It’s a start mom.” he says, with his old-man-son wisdom.
“It’s a start.”
Summerhead 