i habitually run for miles, sweating my ass off on the cracked sidewalks of my little hometown. it's my hobby, my obsession, my therapy.
usually i run into some people walking dogs, a couple of sunburnt kids on shitty bikes, maybe a few middle-aged ladies with water bottles and fancy sneakers trying to get fit for that midsummer vacation to florida. but today was different. everyone and their brother was out and about, breathing in that muggy air drenched with the smell of all the flowers that lost the battle against the heat of the past few days.
as i was panting and shuffling my way down a side street, i thought about how i felt i had a pretty good day, all things considered; i thought about how i need to run a little bit more before shimmying into that new skirt; i thought about the poor, abused skin on my shoulders soaking up even more UV rays as i ran.
i squinted into the evening sunshine as a group of people got closer - a middle aged mom, older dad, and three young kids, the youngest of which was enthusiastically heading the pack with a fake push-vacuum (the kind with the little balls inside) and a polka dot bathing suit ensemble. that made me smile as i hopped off the curb to give their troupe full clearance to pass.
that smile was glued to my face while the father asked me something i didn't quite hear, and remained when i asked him what he'd said. it was even still there when he repeated jokingly, 'what are ya running from?'
but it was gone in a split second when i answered, 'myself'.
gone because i didn't even realize that's what i was going to say; gone because i wasn't trying to be funny; gone because it was automatic and morbid and completely true.
