• I can hardly keep my eyes open

  i think i'm going to have to go to bed early tonight

  i just wrote a kickass essay about Matt

  writing makes me feel drained

  especially writing like that

  you guys can read it, if you want

  i don't feel like posting anything else

  here, enjoy

  i'll try again tomorrow

  I learned how to run my sophomore year due very little to drive of my own. It had not been my idea exactly; I was not one of those over achiever kids who thought of gym class as an extension of an actual sport. While everyone else ran 6 minute miles and kicked people in the shins over soccer balls, I was perfectly content participating just enough to pass. Gym, in my opinion, was not worth getting sweaty over. As for sports outside of gym, I believed in much the same policy. Like most kids, I had obviously been put on soccer and basketball teams at some point in my life, but both were merely one year terms to serve out and then quit for good. This philosophy was probably partially due to the fact that I completely sucked at both, but also because I just couldn’t see the point. What’s so cool about chasing after a ball? “It’s a good energy outlet. It’s fun”, my parents always responded. It wasn’t. I hated getting bruised up from being pushed around and being yelled at by my teammates. I think I ultimately stuck to gymnastics because it’s one of those rare sports where you are responsible only for yourself. That, and the fact that doing back flips is way more exciting of an ability than kicking a ball around.

                  Anyway, the fact that I completely failed at all sports involving anything other than flexibility and muscle didn’t really bother me. All in all, athletics didn’t seem like that important of a life skill to have. However, my boyfriend at the time completely disagreed. As an XC runner and all around solid athlete, he found it absolutely pathetic that I couldn’t even throw a football to save my life. “I didn’t even realize it was possible for someone who can flip on a four inch beam to suck so much,” he told me. “Gee, thanks for the support”. Obviously, it wasn’t exactly the best relationship in the world, but I figured at the time it was better than nothing. Matt was the kind of person who would bitch about every little fault of mine until I figured out a way to right them. Clearly, this was vicious cycle of so called “self improvement”, but the point is that I would usually get sick enough of his snide comments to prove him wrong after a while. My suckishness at sports was no exception. After only a few days of his merciless teasing, I found myself waking up at 7:00 on Saturdays to go for a run. I chose running mostly because of the fact that no matter how unathletic you are, anyone can force their bodies to be able to push for a few miles with enough practice. However, I had not realized how much practice “enough” was. Even after running a mile every day after school and two on weekends for a month, I could still barely finish my four laps on the track without passing out. My time was down to about 7 minutes, which was obviously improvement, but I knew it wasn’t nearly good enough to impress Matt into shutting up. Also, I still hated it with a burning fiery passion. I can’t stand people who tell you they feel great after running, because they are clearly lying. For me, running was a form of self inflicted torture, resulting always in horrible stomach cramps and my body literally begging me to stop. It is all well and good to say running is such a great accomplishment when you’re bragging to your stupid boyfriend, but it feels like hell when you are actually doing it. For the life of me, I could not figure out why anyone would pick this as a choice calorie burner, let alone enjoy it. Even if I was burning 100000 calories a mile, it was still so not worth it. The only reason I stuck it out as long as I did was because my pride was valued even higher than any of the multiple sacrifices I was making. It was like a contest I needed to win, stubbornness vs common sense. Even though I was well aware of how stupid it was, I felt like I really had to prove that I could be just as driven as anyone else.

                  When Matt broke up with me the day after I had run my first two miles straight, I decided to keep at it. At first I didn’t really know why, since there was no one else in my life who cared if I could run worth a damn, but eventually I realized it was because running was something I needed to finish. Over the months, it had become so routine that I couldn’t just not do it anymore. And as time went on and I got to the point of almost being good, I figured out I didn’t hate it quite so much.

                  About two weeks after the end of our year long roller coaster train wreck of a borderline abusive relationship, Matt called to tell me what an idiot he was and how much he wanted me back. Like any sane person, I said no. When he wouldn’t stop bothering me about at least talking things out, I finally agreed to go running with him.

                  I told my mom I had a test to finish and stayed after school, meeting Matt in the lobby after changing into my gym clothes. “Hey,” he said awkwardly, the first words we had exchanged in weeks. “Hi. Ready?” I asked. We stretched in awkward silence and then took off; starting in on what was apparently a three and a half mile course. It was the most I had ever done, but strangely, I was feeling pretty confident in my running ability. I let Matt keep pace; following directly behind him for the first solid 2 and a half miles or so. He kept looking back to make sure I was still there, an expression of absolute shock every time. Eventually, I got a cramp and had to slow down and walk for a bit, angry at myself for not making it the whole way. I signaled to Matt to keep running without me, but he slowed down to my pace and walked beside me. “Wow, you’ve really improved,” he said softly. “No shit,” I replied, hot angry tears pooling in my eyes. Cautiously, he put his arm around me and I let him, mostly because I was just too exhausted to care. “I’m so proud of you,” he told me. He kissed me quickly on the lips before I had time to register what was happening, and then he was off like a shot with me hot on his heels all the way back to the school.

                  We did end up talking for a little bit, but mostly just to establish that this was the last time we probably ever would. We didn’t talk about him kissing me, or any of the other stuff we really needed to. Somehow, the timing didn’t seem right. We made no contact for the rest of the school year other than the polite hello in the hall. I got busy with gymnastics and started running less and less often, until by summer I had given it up completely. After I had reached that 3 and a half mile mark, it just didn’t seem worth perusing any further. Even though now it wasn’t physically painful enough for me to despise it, I still didn’t enjoy it. I had started running for all the wrong reasons and now I had come far enough to give it up without quitting. I was willing to put aside the piece of me that could be an almost good distance runner into a little box of everything I associated with Matt. Running in itself had never been for me; only the pride in actually succeeding at it. Once I realized that, I was done. I had nothing left to prove.

   

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