Run Baby, Run

It hurt to open my eyes this morning. I tried to move, but couldn’t. My muscles ached; my mouth felt like a desert. I willed my arm to reach for the bottle of water by the bed.

I know what you’re thinking. But you're wrong.

I wish I was hungover. At least then I would have some fun (if blurred) memories of getting into this condition. But no, the cause of this pain was nothing fun; this agony is the result of a ten mile run.

I’m sure some of you are thinking I’m insane for attempting to run ten minutes much less ten miles (and I sort of agree with you), but there are a few of you (and you know who you psychos are) who are thinking, “Ten miles? I do that in my sleep!” Either way, there it is. I’ve somehow turned into a runner.

I started jogging in high school as part of an obsessive need to control my weight. I kept on jogging throughout college (running ‘the loop’ was a prerequisite for every Vandygirl), and I’ve kept it up fairly regularly ever since. I used to aim to run a couple of miles, maybe two or three times a week, and that was enough to keep me feeling pretty good about myself. However, over the past year, I’ve become quite the little jogger. I’m not going to run a marathon any time soon, but I can run ten miles! Sure, I may not be able to move the next day, but I can do it.

The question is, why do I want to do it? I mean isn’t running basically just self-inflicted torture? Possibly… Probably.

One of my girlfriends says all of this running is a metaphor; she's convinced I’m subconsciously trying to run back to Atlanta! In a way, maybe she's right. I think it started as a way to escape my in-laws. Going for a morning run allowed me to skip out on breakfast with the fam – more than adequate motivation to lace up my Nikes. On the weekends, I found myself staying out longer and longer, simply to avoid the drama. Well, I no longer share a roof with my in-laws, but I’m still running. I think the masochist inside of me enjoys pushing my limits.

Of course, the obsessive teenager who forced me to start jogging in the first place still provides ample motivation. As much as I try to deny her existence, she continues to tell me I will become an enormous pig if I don’t pound the pavement daily. It’s her voice that gets me out of bed at six a.m. It’s her thoughts that taunt me as I eat a bowl of ice cream. It’s her self esteem that convinces me everything would be better if I could just lose five pounds.

I think most women (and plenty of men too) have a somewhat twisted relationship with their bodies. We consistently fight our natural shape; we long to look like someone else. We eat too much; then we don’t eat enough. When we do eat something delicious, we feel guilty. We drag ourselves to the gym for all the wrong reasons. We take a ridiculous amount of pleasure from fitting into a smaller size. We continue to tie our self worth to what we look like.

I’m embarrassed to say that despite years of therapy, I’m still as guilty as the next girl. But is that it? Do I simply accept that I'll always be a slave to my running shoes? And if so, maybe that’s not really such a bad thing. Doesn’t a mild obsession with diet and exercise ensure a long, healthy existence? And yet, nobody likes the girl who eats a salad at a pizza party. I don’t want to be that girl any more than I want to hang out with her! But I also don’t want to eat pizza on Friday night, only to spend most of Saturday beating myself up about it.

It’s not a coincidence that this spike in my obsession coincided with my moving to Johannesburg. So much of it is about control, and living in a foreign country has certainly made me feel slightly powerless. And of course half the problem is having too much time to think about it. My life here in Joburg has awarded me the luxury of time, but what am I doing with this precious gift? Am I saving the planet? Am I learning new things? No, I’m spending hours at the gym obsessing about how much I weigh…and I’m tired of it.

I didn’t mean to get so serious today, but there it is – my most shameful thoughts splattered across your computer screen. I hope this little glimpse into the shadows of my mind hasn’t scared you. I may be mildly twisted, but aren’t we all? (Most of you just have the good sense to keep quiet about it!) It’s all about balance, I suppose, and I’ll get there eventually. That being said, I’ll probably keep running around Parktown North, but as for the obsessive teenager running around my head…
Well, I'm kicking that little twit to the curb.