Merely A Flesh Wound

Finishing up my morning run early I showered-up, got dressed, and pushed through the heavy glass door of the gym onto the sidewalk. I’d love to brag about suddenly morphing into wicked fast runner. I can’t even type that phrase without laughing. Nope. My half-marathon training crested this past week, so the daily running regimen is pretty relaxed from now until race day. With this relaxed routine, I finished up early.

I pushed outside, turned toward my parked car, and took up a clip to my stride, mentally ticked with the day’s to-do list: switch the laundry, wake up Naomi, start the coffee pot, pack my lunch…and…for an instant I breathed “thank-you” to no one in particular.

I fell last week. Carrying a heavy box of file folders to my car. Missed the curb, twisted my ankle. No big deal, but, because I was carrying this box I didn’t have my arms to counter-balance my clumsiness and took a face-plant into the pavement. File folders flew everywhere. The dry wind kicked up. I crawled around on my skinned up my knees to re-assemble the papers before they blew away. The bodily injuries while ugly to look are nothing severe. A day or two of ice-packs. Slacked off with the running routine to make sure everything was a-okay.

I was glad to realize I’d be able to still run the half-marathon. Resumed my running habits on Sunday. This morning, walking along 11^th St, pre-occupied with my to-do list I thought of the capable, if breakable, body that indulges my half-marathon ambitions. The physics of mobility the possibility of motion seeming effortless.

Thank-you, I breathed.
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Currently Reading: The Woman Behind the New Deal by Kristin Downey
Dinner Line Up: Southwestern Corn & Pepper Pot, Tortilla Chips, Guacamole
Weekend Soundtrack: Freedom Sessions by Sarah McLaughlin (Mmm-hmmm, it was a moody weekend)
Naomi’s Latest Offering: I’ve recently asserted that Sunday is family cleaning day. My daughter observes that hard labor helps her imagine being an orphan.