I became a citizen at the end of March. Inspired by American movies, I had always dreamt of a party with caviar and champagne, and now I finally had my fill of it. Our house was too small for all the people I wanted to celebrate with, so we had caviar and champagne three days in a row (I can now abstain from the fare for months or years to come). Given all the agitation, I didn’t run for almost a week. For a week, I eluded the six miles looming over me like darkness.
I picked up again where I left it off, five miles. It felt relatively easy. I was warm in the exercise room, running in t-shirt and leggings. Even the thought of buying some running outfit intimidated me. I was fantasizing about running outside and needing a pedometer to measure my output. I still felt unsure about how to see myself in this running equation. It was talking time away form me. It was cramping my style. My body hurt all the time. I had not started blogging yet, for fear of making a fool of myself.
I am a silly broad who thrives on approval.
Perhaps I needed to jump into running, head over heels, eyes closed, to really see where it would take me.