Its been a while since I’ve posted. But, instead of making grandiose promises to be a better blogger, how about we just fast forward past the missing weeks and get to today. After all, we’re supposed to live in the now, right?
But for those that are curious, here are some keywords that sum up the last few weeks: Hunger Games. Homeless man. Creepy stranger. Pepper spray. Nosy neighbor. Overtime. Stress. Angry tears. Short Fridays. Rain. Ice cream. Video chats. Thunder claps. Birthday brunch. Game of Thrones. Girls.
New pants. TV commercial. And Elle the Failed Actress.
Needless to say, you’ll probably want to hear more about those weeks than about what I’m actually going to talk about in this post–10.39
About this time last year, I was sitting in a wheelchair.
Being the graceful girl that I am, a tumble down an awkward flight of stairs in Rome landed me in the emergency room because I had broken the fall by landing on my toes and–long story, short?–the impact led to a fractured ankle on the right and two torn ligaments on the left. Yes, I’m a grade A clutz.
I spent the next 4 months in the wheelchair learning how to navigate through a world not built for the handicapable. I couldn’t open my own doors, I couldn’t pull up a pair of pants, I couldn’t use the bathroom without the buddy system, and I couldn’t run.
But, thanks to youth, time, and modern medicine, the healing began and I graduated from the wheelchair to 3 months on crutches and slowly began the path to recovery. I could open my own doors, I could awkwardly wiggle in to a pair of jeans, and I could use the restroom without the buddy system but I still couldn’t run.
I don’t know why I wanted to run so badly. I hated running the mile in high school. I hated the burning sensation that would fill my lungs as I reached the end of a jog. And I hated the idea of running just to run but, in those seven months, I have never wanted to run more in my life.
After 3 months of crutches and repetitive and painful physical therapy exercises, I graduated from crutches to my own two feet but it wasn’t until today that I could truly say that I can run.
Without the security of ankle braces and without the tinge of pain from my right ankle telling me its time to stop, I ran a full mile in 10.39 minutes.
Sure, it wasn’t the prettiest of miles and those aren’t the most impressive of numbers but it was my mile. The mile that filled my lungs with a burning sensation–that I still hate, by the way–and freed me from the fall that held me captive.
My ankles are still far from what they used to be so I won’t be wearing hooker heels to Vegas any time soon and l’ll probably be ridiculously sore tomorrow but 10.39 is a start and I’m on cloud 9.
…I’m pretty sure this is runner’s high but let’s run with it.
P.S., Did I mention that I’ve thrown my hat in to the ring for the Nike Women’s Half-Marathon? This’ll be interesting.