Because a Sidewalk Begs for Running
Blue silhouette like a veil, rippling over grass and uneven concrete: woman stretched, hands in pockets, errant curl floating in the breeze. The stars are so bright it aches to look at them. Or maybe that's the wind stinging tears from my eyes. It's 60 degrees out--cold, for the first time in months--and I am walking. Not for exercise, but to enjoy the weather. I'm not dressed to exercise. Loafers. Jeans. A shirt that's more baby slobber than fabric... a sweater over it.

Just a walk. Feet moving. Look up at those knife-bright stars: Orion's belt, my favorite constellation, such symmetry. Staring up, it strikes me then: rhythm of my stride, sway of spine, eyes up.

I'm alone.

In my body.

No one developing beneath my skin. No one to eat for. No one to protect. All the weight that's on me now is mine. Mine to keep. Mine to lose. Mine to carry.

I'm alone.

And then my foot stretches out and pushes off and I'm running.

Because I can. Because I'm alone in my skin again, and I'm free to push. Because when the ache erupts in my side, hard like ropes, sharp like razors, it's okay, it's mine, I can push past it. My ribs become claws and my chest stiffens but I am laughing without breath, because at last, I realize, I realize: I can go back to what I was. I'm free.

My new year's resolution: I don't want to lose weight. I don't want to fit into that dress or that pair of jeans. I don't want to look nicer.

I want my body back.

I want to dance for hours in the ballroom while genet sings to whatever's on the iPod. I want to chase people half my age across the strip until I'm dripping. I want to swing shadesong off her feet next time I see her, because what fun is it to be as short as we are unless people can whirl us around?

I want my condition back. I want to break my limits. I want to sweat and laugh and flop on my back, trying not to vomit from exhaustion. If this is runner's euphoria it's as much mental as it is physical. I want to endure. I don't want to live in a cage anymore, in a dark corner of a prison of flesh. While I exist here I want this body to be a prism, refracting as much of the real me as we can achieve in tandem.

By the time I get home, my hands are back in my pockets and my head is down again. But the sweater is untidily wrapped around my waist and I have blisters on my feet, and at my side my silhouette ripples on the grass like a banner.

Next time I'll wear proper shoes.


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