Hiding Away

I want to go running. I want to get better. but what happens when the cross country team and I cross paths and I'm weak lungs and heavy breaths and they are giggles and airy conversation and we are less than a mile from my house? They'd know. They'd have to know; I'm out of shape. An embarrassment to Nike shoes everywhere. I could start with baby steps. I could be willing to go a little more, give a little more everyday. Take a new path or two just to avoid standing next to the marathon winners.  I'll be sore. I don't know how long I'll be sore either. But maybe after months of effort someone will notice that I'm a few pounds slimmer and just one comment will make the journey rewarding. Maybe. But maybe I'll come across too many cross country kids and my weight loss will halt watching their effortless techniques and falling into the trap of comparison.

This post isn't about running or cross country or losing weight. This post is about writing, and poetic bloggers and shedding heavy emotion. I'm not scared of sore muscles, I'm scared of sore vulnerability.


Who knows if I'll ever be a runner, but there's one way to find out.