I went up to my first marathon training lecture at the NY Road Runners this evening. I can't run, but I figured I'd show up for the lesson, see how things were being grouped, and check out the boy:girl ratio. I got my priorities, yo!
While the ratio wasn't great, maybe 1:6 (which is still pretty good for NYC), the guys were almost all cute and the girls were almost all not. I sat down in the auditorium, purposely leaving a space for someone to sit next to me if they wanted. Within minutes, the cutest guy in the room - dark skin, big nose, baseball cap, dark hair and a beard - moved into my row, past me, and sat down a seat away. Sweet! Jewish? Muslim? Ring? Couldn't see.
We smiled and said hi, and then I stuck my head in my book, and he read the sheet we'd been given when we walked in - something about blood flow. The lecture was brief but good. We learned about aerobic and anaerobic breathing. We learned about classifications for runners. And Shelly, the leader, told us that today we (well, not I, but all the other poor suckers) were going to run down to the East River, and across the Queensborough Bridge and back, in 88 degree weather, with 60% humidity. She warned everyone we'd have to go 2-by-2 over the bridge and in spots because the sidewalk was so narrow, and she wanted us to take it slow.
My heart raced. The Queensborough Bridge! I felt real fear just thinking about being in a pack of pretty able-bodied looking runners, trying to keep up, running across a major public road during rush hour. The Queensborough Bridge is part of the marathon course and it is very steep in parts! How exciting that we'd be running over hallowed ground... ground I probably wouldn't see again until the marathon itself! Wait, I had to remind myself, I'm not running today.
I felt this strange combination of fear, excitement and sadness. I want my foot to be OK! Now! Maybe all this is happening to me so that I will really appreciate it when I can run again. So that I will work my ass off when I'm able, and not slack, and feel privileged if November 7th comes and I'm in fact able to go for the big goal.
When the lecture was over, bearded neighbor man asked me if I knew if we could leave our stuff in the room while we ran and I said we could. I wondered if he thought it odd that I was wearing a skirt and running shoes... I offered up an answer, just in case, saying I wasn't going to be running because of my injury, and that I'd just had an MRI today, and was hoping I'd be back on track soon. He asked what happened and I told him about the fateful barefoot soccer game on the grass...
"Duct tape," he said.
"Excuse me?" I really hadn't understood what he'd said. Actually, I thought he said, "Fuck it."
"Duct tape," he repeated. "Just duct tape the foot."
I smiled inside and out because that's something my father would have said. "Yeah, duct tape and some Popsicle sticks. That's all I need!" I replied with a laugh. "Why do men always think duct tape is the answer to all of life's problems? Might be kind of hard for me to jam a duct taped foot into my high heeled shoe! ...Well, I hope to see you next week!" and then I got up and left thinking about my father, and wondering if that was some kind of sign.
You know me - or maybe you don't know me - I get signs. All the time. I run into people against all odds. I get freaky specific fortune cookies. Psychics look me in the eye and always say the same thing about my energy. I'm not psychic myself but there's definitely something about me that's a little different, or maybe just more realized than the average person. Have me hold a hand over yours some time and you'll see what I mean. An ex-boyfriend used to call me the heat factory. I can feel it when I'm in the presence of imbued objects.
Anyway, I don't do anything with it but as I get older, I do try to at least recognize the signs and try to heed the messages. With regard to romance, I just went to a psychic in New Orleans and he got really specific on me. He said my husband was coming, and that he would look the opposite of me - dark skin, dark hair, tall, and that he'd have a cleft chin.
I don't know if my new friend from running class has a cleft chin under that beard, but there was something about him that made me pay attention. I guess I'll find out what it all means in time. Perhaps it's just my dad looking down on me through him, sending a message - laugh this foot injury off. It's "my way" of getting you off the hook from running during an August heat wave in Manhattan. I love you and my little girl shouldn't have to suffer.
If that's what this is, then, thank you Dad; and if you see any good dudes with cleft chins around, could you please point me in the right direction?
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