For now, I'll just drink my hot chai.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Yeah, I run at lunch (RUNch). This doesn’t happen all the time and it’s not for very long, but I RUNch. I’ve had a lot of people ask me how I feel about coming back to work all sweaty. I kindly respond with, “I’d rather stink and look good than smell pretty and be fat.” Harsh, yes, but that’s my view.
I jumped on the opportunity when Rachel from We Run This, a women’s running group, asked for women to share their RUNch routine. Today, she published the compilation. Thanks to Rachel at We Run This for gathering these stories and sharing them with the female running community.
Look ‘em up:
We Run This
I survived last week, a week of firsts.
It started off with me not being able to keep it together – I ran a hard four miles at the gym, while crying, I spent two out of three yoga classes sobbing in savasana and I could barely say our nighttime prayer to my children each night. But it’s getting better. Mornings aren’t as hectic, even with two crazy girls, we don’t rush home after work and evenings are more quiet. Those are the changes that have thrown me off. I still have visions of Pez during his last hours – a time I denied would ever come. With the help of some therapeutic yoga sessions I see him in a different light – a goofball dog. He’d bark at a lone leaf that fluttered in the wind at least 100 yards away; he’d pass gas while looking in another direction as if to shift the blame to someone else; he howled when we howled; he would flinch at the sight and sound of tin foil or at the swell of a garbage bag; he ran circles in the house after coming in from a good poop.
I always understood that this healing process would take time. I’m coming to terms with today’s reality and it’s helping to make me whole again.
It must have been around 11:30 pm when I opened my eyes after a short nap on the couch. The room glowed orange with the help of the pellet stove. I slowly made my way into the kitchen to grab a drink of water before heading up to bed. I looked down at the floor while passing the couch, thinking you’d be there. I filled a glass from the tap and snuck a few tortilla chips in a crumpled paper towel. Noticing that the kitchen seemed darker than usual, I discovered that the back porch light was not lit. Instinctively, I made my way to the door and flipped the switch. I don’t know how long it will be until I open that door, but I want to leave the light on. I tiptoed upstairs expecting to hear you get up. Nothing. I walked right back down and snuggled in my spot on the couch. I knew this would be difficult, but perhaps I denied how much you really meant to me. To us. To our family. You ARE family. The house isn’t the same.
I remember seeing Marcus pick you out of a large cardboard box just a few weeks after you entered this Earth. We were excited, and naive, new parents when we brought you home at six weeks. Believe it that you were the runt of the litter even though you peaked at 115 pounds. Because of your markings, you immediately were pegged for a killer. This, my friend, you know, was far from the truth. You matured into our gentle giant. Although you frightened people off while you showed your teeth, we soon realized that you just had a hell of a smile. In your mischievous ways, you picked through the trash, ate a few socks and baby toys and even snuck a few hundred naps on the couch. I know that you and I didn’t always agree on things, but you damn well know that I care so much about you. You sucked at taking walks and you shed so much hair - what seemed like small children - all over my house. But what you paid to us in loyalty and respect blows those complaints out of the water. The gentleness and protection you shared will never be forgotten. I never imagined how wonderful you would be with the girls. You will always be their ‘Buddy’. These characteristics made you my ‘Bubbie’ – my first dog.
Trust me when I say that I never wanted today to happen. In my head, I convinced myself that this wasn’t a possibility. I hope you understand. I’m glad that we were with you. It was difficult to walk away and more so to open our garage door for the first time not seeing your face. You were our every day for ten years. My head aches, my face throbs and my soul just hurts. Thank you for each day. We love you, Pez.