My alarm went off this morning at 5. I have to be someplace at 10. I thought I could get up at five, be on the road by 5:30 or 6, and be back home and showered by nine. That leaves time for traffic, the train at the end of the run, and general morning lagging. But it's Saturday and I have the day off. So I went back to sleep and got up at seven. There are dishes in the sink, a limping dog who will have surgery on Wednesday, a slide show to work on for the Sister Spit Tour, taxes to do, and my feet hurt. I think I can do my long run tomorrow. Take today off since I usually have Sunday off but this week I have to go to work anyhow so that's already in the shitter. But I also have stuff to do. Will I really do the run tomorrow? I don't know.
It's usually best for me to do the run before I'm really awake. Before the sun is even awake. Then I don't have the rest of the day to try and get myself out of it. It's just done. And it makes me feel good to know while I stock shelves or make orders at work, I already ran five or six miles. I'm awake and bright, ready to rumble. But some days I just want to be a normal person with no strange goals. I want to sleep in and putz around in fuzzy slippers. I want to lay on the floor with the sad looking dog, whispering narratives to him about chew toys and knee recovery. I want to deliver steaming stovetop espresso to Ginger, still sleeping and unfettered by a bizarre mid-life longing to run a distance that would get her from here to Menlo Park. She would surely just take the truck. I thought I could do some dishes, have the kitchen sparkle and get the laundry folded. Maybe listen to some music.
Instead I am ripe with anxiety about not being out there now, not even having a plan to be out there today (although there is a slight chance I could do it still). I don't want to be a go-getter today. I want to be a lounger. A recliner. A chillaxer.
But somewhere in the back of my head, the melody of doubt sings on. And below my ribs a nervousness scratches like a DJ, a constant rhythm wondering if today is the day that could ruin everything. The day that begins the giving up process. Do we even know which day it is? The day the break-up starts? People don't remember the fourth kiss. And they don't remember the Stray Saturday run they didn't feel like doing. No matter how good the coffee is. And at my house, not to brag, the coffee is always outstanding.
Nonetheless, I do plan on dancing my ass off this afternoon for a few hours, and that, I feel exceptional about.