Why Me Though?


The year is 1989. I'm in 6th grade, peak tween awkward with new glasses, a tripod bob (if you know, you KNOW the pain of getting those bangs fipped on all three sides of your forehead), and smelly gym clothes on. 

 It's the mile run. I. Do. Not. Run. I'm a skier, an equestrian, I hike only under duress, covered in Avon Skin So Soft, black flies and seething resentment at my parents, and there is no way I'm about to let my classmates know how bad I am at ANYTHING. 

The buzzer goes off, and I take a step. A petulant, slow, walking step. I made it my mission that day to walk the mile run as slow as I possibly could. 

 Later, in high school, my bestie and I repeat this performance, and then sneak off to the smoking corner across the street for a butt before our next class. My friend L, not only an honors student, but a soccer star as well, took us running the mile path in the center of town one rainy afternoon. I outwardly suffered, but recall loving the feeling of the rain on my face.

 

I still love the feeling of the rain on my face.

I may never be the first across a finish line, but I know if I choose to start, I will finish. I have promised myself that I will stop to take the pictures, and say hello to the creatures that startle me as I startle them, and lift my face to the sky even as I am dog-tired. Because I am out there and I can, so I will.

I'm not entirely sure how a perfectionist child who hated running and hated failing more became this woman who revels in the miles passing me by, knowingly bad at this thing. Maybe permission to be bad at something is the gift we all need to give ourselves. Do the thing, even when you suck, just because it's fun.

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