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Mailbox Finish Line

August 8, 2018

 

I started running again last week. This isn’t a humblebrag. I hate to run. I don’t like pretending to be in danger. Swimming feels good, biking there’s scenery, running is just escaping trouble that doesn’t exist. 

 

But I’ve been doing it. Running laps around the neighborhood beside my apartment complex, adding up how many performances of Stages I’d need to do to buy one of the houses. 

 

As much as running is no fun, it is a good preparation for treatment weeks. When I’m running, all I want to do is quit. But I force myself to keep going and then, when I finally cross that mailbox I deemed the finish line, I feel amazing! I’m the champion of my life. It was all worth it and I am glad I did it. 

 

So today I can’t eat much besides oatmeal and apple sauce. Last night I watched so much Parks and Rec by the end I wanted to MAGA. And writing this blog feels like typing in quicksand. Or like it’s 2007 when I thought pot made me more creative. Boy was I wrong. 

 

But I’m focusing on my jogs last week. It’s helping. The third turn up the hill when I tell myself all the reasons to stop. But I don’t.  I just keep going, a little more, then a little more. Then how great it’s going to feel great to pass that finish line mailbox starts to creep into my head. I pass it, and put my arms above my head. I cough and spit, then let out a little yell. I look around and hope no one heard that. 

 

That’ll be me at noon tomorrow. Another treatment in the book. Back to the off week. I won’t let out a little yell. But I will through my arms when I get to my car, before I drive rest of the way home. 

 

 

 

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