Midnight Miracles

Candle lights were flickering against my green walls and the mesh hanging across my princess bed, and there I laid on the floor, arms crossed over my face. I had music playing, but it wasn't helping. My goal was to cry. To sob. I thought if I made the atmosphere right, I could cry out all the disgusting depression haunting me. No tears came. A restlessness rustled through me like the wind swirling outside my window, and I had to move. I laced up my asics, and my best friend and roommate came into my room to give me a hug--she could tell something was bothering me, but I think she trusted the miles that were about to be pounded beneath the rubber of my soles to do my heart good.

Initially I was planning an angry run. Maybe a mile of as-fast-as-my-legs-will-carry-me to loud music, just outside my apartment complex, I thought. But then I decided that I could use this impetus to do something good for my body, rather than just blow off steam (and in turn potentially harm my fragile shins). So I drove, and I wound up on Milledge Avenue. I parked at the fire station (I figured any wandering bad men wouldn't attack me there haha), stretched for a few minutes (which I was proud of myself for doing, since I was anxious to just start sweating--and I came an inch from being bitten by a giant black widow that was on the lightpost!), and then took off.

I started, and in the first two minutes wanted to stop. I didn't feel strong, and I was coughing up phlegm (EW--probably a mixture of allergies, getting over being sick, and smoking two cigarettes last night), and I almost gave up. But I found my pace, and I kept on. I just kept going... stoplight to stoplight, passing beautiful greek houses, focusing on my breath, my pace, and my music. I ran from the fire station in 5 points to Prince Ave and back. I lowered my pace to a walk here and there, maybe 5-6 times if that, but I just kept moving. It felt good.

When I got back to my car, I clicked the trip mileage meter, covered it up with a piece of paper, and drove my running path, to see my distance. I literally had no idea how far I'd gone. When I got back to my starting point, I parked the car and removed the piece of paper. My jaw dropped, a laugh hiccuped in my chest, and small tears welled in my eyes.

 3.1 miles. It could have been any distance other than that. I had NO clue how far I'd gone. I could have parked anywhere in Milledge, I could have only ran to Broad Street and back. No, I went to Prince and back, and it was a freaking 5k. And I did it without stopping--granted there were a few walking breaks, and doing the runners shuffle at stoplights, but I did it. Call me superstitious, but that didn't have to happen--but god knew I needed a miracle tonight, a glimmer of hope. I felt the love of god kissing my shoulders and making sure I knew that it was meant for my heart that things worked out that way.

Coming to conclusion, I have to add one thought: I feel the most sexy and attractive when I just finish a work out. I am sweaty, my skin is flushed, my hair is everywhere, and I feel better than I did at prom. People always say they are "gross" after they work out... but I feel incredible. I took this picture when I finished my run, and I gotta say... if you don't see what I'm talking about... well, that means one of us is crazy, and it's probably you. Ha.

I'm not "all better." The depressive instinct is still there, but breathing helps. Sticky fingers from sliced watermelon in parking lots at 1am, those are the things that help. The cure for insomnia? City and Colour, and perhaps a private viewing of Going the Distance, a little girly flick, on that leather couch that gave me such restlessness just a few hours prior. Hm. Life is so strange... but it is unending in it's weirdness and continuum, so we must make the best of it, regardless.