Running Time

In the early hours of the morning, I watched the digital clock on my cell phone shift the entire time space continuum.

Okay, not really, but I was touched by how little effort it took to lose an entire hour of my life.  Our electronic devices remember to do it for us – turn it back, “spring it forward” – manipulating our concept of time with one mindless, automated click.  We even talk on the phone with people in different time zones, sharing a joke with someone “now,” who is technically laughing with you tomorrow morning.  It’s all a little bit fucked up.

Almost three months ago, I wrote a blog post announcing my desire and commitment to moving forward… with my runners on.  During the last 11 weeks, I’ve been going to the gym 2 – 3 times a week, with the exception of one week when I felt exceptionally shitty and only went once.  My Prednisone marshmallow suit is resisting complete annihilation, but my leg muscles are now nice enough to let me run ten minutes straight before slowing down for a rest.  I am hardly hard core, people –  I run only at the pace at which my pissy, little body will allow me.  I listen carefully to every tinge of pain; a tender ankle, an achy knee.  I navigate my way out of a dizzy haze with rest and pep-talks.  I don’t run every time I go to the gym, I space it out, trying not to overwhelm my joints despite their mostly pain-free status.  I know better than to let that fool me.  I’m running, but I’m taking it slow.  Go figure.

This is the longest period of time I have ever been committed to the gym and although Prednisone’s amazing marshmallowy effects can still get me down, I know that my efforts at the gym have nothing to do with it’s continuing presence.  “Moon Face and Friends” will only disappear with those lovely, little white pills.  I will have to wait till my April appointment in order to see if the Big M is a worthy opponent for the auto-immune wolf growling inside of me.  If so, Evil P can get the hell outta here and the outer normalcy I wish for will finally come to be.

Perhaps it’s silly to think that when I look like the person I was, I’ll be able to be the person I am?  Am I waiting for an imaginary “me,” the way people run after time; sweat pouring, chest heaving, trying to catch up. Could it be that this slightly marshmallowy version of myself isn’t a lesser version at all?

“Enjoy it while it lasts!” One of my keepers exclaimed.  Be satisfied now.  Redefine “normal.”  Shine your moonlight puff-tasticness all over the whole damn place.

Just run with it, baby.   Just run.

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