I put on my favorite jeans the other day. Joe’s. Skinny leg, but not too skinny. I got them almost two years ago and I wear them like it’s my job.
But now I love them less. As I was sliding my right leg in, I noticed the tag. You know the one where the size is written in 6-font. I always thought they were size X, but actually, the size was X+1. For almost two years I loved these jeans for how they make my stumpy legs look almost longish and my C-section pouch look flatter than the Dakotas. But I also loved them because they were “only” size X. Now that they are actually one size larger, I love ‘em a little less.
Can we all agree that’s messed up?
From the same section of my broken brain comes this little gem:
I was running home from work yesterday. It was brighter than high noon, even though it was 5:30. The wind was at my back, I didn’t have on eight layers of fleece and Gortex. I was blissing out and saying prayers of gratitude for the exquisite run after all the winter horribleness.
I was also timing myself. My first two half-miles were solid. The next two I ran about 15 seconds slower, but the blue waters of the Lake and the sunshine glinting off the museum campus was so gorgeous I didn’t really care. I mean, I cared because I can’t not care, but I was still smiling and grooving along.
As I turned to head the half mile back home, my thumb hit my stop watch function on my phone and erased all my “data” from the run. Not the memory of the sunlight on the lake or the joy of my body moving through time and space. But the numbers. The splits. The proof that I was keep up a 8:30/mi pace. Gone.
And just like that, the run was diminished– less than what it was when I could look down and see the stats. It became a French fry with no ketchup; a pizza with no cheese, or a wallet with no Costco card.
Again, can we all agree that’s messed up?
The question is where do I begin to fix this?