To tell him “Thank You.”
Thank you for motivating me.
Because, sometimes, I’m not enough.
I started my run/walk tonight, like always.
Only it was a little better tonight.
Balmy 80 degrees.
Cool wind blowing.
The smells of fresh cut grass, the honeysuckle already lining the fence lines, clean laundry wafting from house vents . . . .
Until I started my second mile.
Uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill.
I was losing my enthusiasm.
Feeling the burn and the pain.
But I pushed through.
Second mile accomplished, I meandered my way to my driveway.
I caught a glimpse of myself in my windows.
Face flushed, sweat running down my back, staining my shirt.
Tears mingling with the sweat on my face because my hip had started grinding and aching a half a mile ago.
But none of this is what bothered me.
It was the way the spandex shirt clung just a little too much to my curves that caught my attention.
The way my breasts bounced even when confined by two sports bras.
The way my track shorts rode up a bit on my thighs.
And then I heard it.
His voice mocking me: “I don’t think you’re all that.”
Screw you, asshole.
I turned right back around.
And ran another half mile.
Harder than I ran the first two miles.
And when I got home . . .
Instead of doing the 100 crunches on the exercise ball that I do every night.
I did 200.
Instead of the 25 bicep and tricep curls I do with the elastic bands, I did 50.
I wore myself out until I couldn’t hear him mocking me anymore.
And I felt better about myself.
Yeah, maybe I’m not all that.
I haven’t been for a while.
But I will be again.
Sickness or no.
Medications or no.
Alone or no.
By God, I will be better than I was.
Inside if not out.
But I will do my damndest to change the outside, too.
And he can bite me.
I just wish I would have saved his number.
So I could tell him that.