I can't run...well that's not entirely true. I can run-just not very quickly.
At all.
Here's the dilemma: the eight minute mile. Everyone knows it, it is the most reviled, most disgusting, most horrible, communist part of gym class that preys off the fear and sweat of fat kids and those sickly skinny kids who can't run more than a foot without having a full-fledged asthma attack and needing immediate medical assistance.
Unfortunately, I'm not one of the latter. No, then I'd have a medical condition and at least some excuse.
I'm just fat.
I'm not ashamed of my body or anything. I know that I'm beautiful and I really don't care what anyone else has to say about that anyway. My self-worth is a lot more internally based than what some idiot with a mouth bigger than their two functioning brain cells says. I know I'm not the healthiest, but I'm trying to get healthier and that's what matters. In the mean time, I'm loving the body I'm in.
Unfortunately, my gym teacher has little to no sympathy for the weak, being a very short, very blonde, very athletic, flexible gymnast. Her only sympathy came in the slight extension of the time in which I had to run the mile. This, however, doesn't mean I'm going to run it any faster. In fact, I ran it slower.
Picture the scene: second hour gym class. Captain Molly Pickford of the USS Failboat is just about to run her last mile of the school year. She was getting progressively better throughout the year in spite of an unfortunate broken foot caused by (surprise, surprise) running and a concussion caused by general stupidity.
She prefers to not speak about how she received her concussion.
Most of the time, after some not-so-kind words spoken about Molly's running abilities at the honors' night, Molly just ran her best and tried to not kill herself. Unfortunately for Molly, this usually ended up with her having and 11+ minute mile. She tried everything she could to get better, but alas-for the time being, her time stuck. So, as you can expect, she was filled with nerves, exhaustion, and just a little bit of hunger on the day of the mile.
Screw Pearl harbor, this was the real day that would live in infamy. Decked out in the most uncomfortable gym shorts known to man, a shirt that seriously did not breathe at all, and some tennis shoes she'd never worn outside of the gym, Molly took her place in the very back of the running line up. She was used to coming in last, and it didn't really bug her anymore, especially since her parents and several other parents had yelled at the gym teacher for her comments about certain girls' athletic abilities. However, a part of her did still feel inadequate and wouldn't cut it the frick out no matter how hard she tried. And then the mile began.
She'd like to say she began with a flash, but then she'd be, to quote Frank Sinatra, "...a dirty Communist li[ar]." Molly instead began with a...spark. She ran the laps, all of them, only stopping when she really, truly, couldn't breathe. Near the end, especially as others finished and she was still left running, Molly really wanted to give up. But then, something a little bit amazing happened and when Molly realized all the lies and put-downs ever thrown her way really were just lies and put-downs. In that moment Molly was freed and as she finished her mile she was happier to finish running in a way different than ever before.
And when she finished-the class cheered.
In that moment, she didn't care about a single thing. Not that she had run a slower than usual mile, not that people were cheering, not anything. You see in that moment Molly Pickford was the star of her own mid-90s cheesy teen sports drama and realized that she truly didn't give a crap what anyone but she and God thought was good enough. Because really, who else matters?
That's the story of my mile! Somewhere, somehow, I realized that really, I was enough. And you know what? I ran almost a whole mile all by myself last week, on my own, and it felt great to do. I may not be the fastest runner, nor the best, but I have to say that I'm growing to love it. I've discovered something I really can get better at and I intend to do so. Who knows? Maybe I'll run a marathon someday and shock them all.
Ciao,
-Pick
Picture the scene: second hour gym class. Captain Molly Pickford of the USS Failboat is just about to run her last mile of the school year. She was getting progressively better throughout the year in spite of an unfortunate broken foot caused by (surprise, surprise) running and a concussion caused by general stupidity.
She prefers to not speak about how she received her concussion.
Most of the time, after some not-so-kind words spoken about Molly's running abilities at the honors' night, Molly just ran her best and tried to not kill herself. Unfortunately for Molly, this usually ended up with her having and 11+ minute mile. She tried everything she could to get better, but alas-for the time being, her time stuck. So, as you can expect, she was filled with nerves, exhaustion, and just a little bit of hunger on the day of the mile.
Screw Pearl harbor, this was the real day that would live in infamy. Decked out in the most uncomfortable gym shorts known to man, a shirt that seriously did not breathe at all, and some tennis shoes she'd never worn outside of the gym, Molly took her place in the very back of the running line up. She was used to coming in last, and it didn't really bug her anymore, especially since her parents and several other parents had yelled at the gym teacher for her comments about certain girls' athletic abilities. However, a part of her did still feel inadequate and wouldn't cut it the frick out no matter how hard she tried. And then the mile began.
She'd like to say she began with a flash, but then she'd be, to quote Frank Sinatra, "...a dirty Communist li[ar]." Molly instead began with a...spark. She ran the laps, all of them, only stopping when she really, truly, couldn't breathe. Near the end, especially as others finished and she was still left running, Molly really wanted to give up. But then, something a little bit amazing happened and when Molly realized all the lies and put-downs ever thrown her way really were just lies and put-downs. In that moment Molly was freed and as she finished her mile she was happier to finish running in a way different than ever before.
And when she finished-the class cheered.
In that moment, she didn't care about a single thing. Not that she had run a slower than usual mile, not that people were cheering, not anything. You see in that moment Molly Pickford was the star of her own mid-90s cheesy teen sports drama and realized that she truly didn't give a crap what anyone but she and God thought was good enough. Because really, who else matters?
That's the story of my mile! Somewhere, somehow, I realized that really, I was enough. And you know what? I ran almost a whole mile all by myself last week, on my own, and it felt great to do. I may not be the fastest runner, nor the best, but I have to say that I'm growing to love it. I've discovered something I really can get better at and I intend to do so. Who knows? Maybe I'll run a marathon someday and shock them all.
Ciao,
-Pick
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