My friend Tom has an interesting term for "going crazy". He think the term crazy is overused, and I tend to agree. I looked up crazy, and according to Microsoft Word, it's 'mad', 'wild', 'passionate', 'extreme', and 'fanatical'. The antonyms are 'normal', 'sensible', and 'indifferent'. If that's the case, shouldn't we all aspire to be crazy? At least we would be ALIVE. The antithesis of crazy sounds like the most boring existence in the world. Yeah, maybe I am a bit crazy then. And I think that could be a good thing. But Tom prefers to call crazy "smelling rabbit". He is convinced that, once you are standing over that deep cavern of sanity, tempting the ledge with your weight and teasing the other side, he will smell rabbit.

Why have I brought this up? Because, not for the first time recently, I am exhibiting a change in behavior that could be associated with the aroma of fluffy burrowing mammal. I have taken up running.

This, for me, is in itself an extraordinary feat. It is extraordinary since I have always firmly maintained that I do not see the point in running, unless being chased. I hate running. I thought it was pointless.

Yet, one day, almost a month ago, I had returned home from a two week business trip to the US. I was stading in the veranda, looking at the sun rising outside. It was pretty early morning, as my dog Ed (the ideal, dream-collie dog) had woken me up for a walk. Once the walk was done, I stood there assessing my choices. I could make that perfect cup of espresso-two parts espresso, one part steaming milk. I could plonk myself down in front of the TV with a good DVD. I could attempt to go back to bed.

But, somehow, I reached for a pair of gym shorts, a sports bra, and went to the cellar to dust off my running shoes. I strapped them on, wrapped my hair in a long ponytail, and stuck my MD played in my pocket. I walked out the door, out the gate in the front of the yard, and just took a step in a run.

It was that simple. Suddenly, I was running.

And the run was both fabulous and horrible. Early on, I felt my ribcage banging soundly with firey little hands on the outside of my lungs. "Hello!" they screamed. "Remember us? We're not used to this nonsense! Slow down, or we swear to God the lungs are going to get a puncture. Don't make me tell you again!"

But the rest of me felt great. Music throbbing in my ears (choice of the day-Evanescence). My arms moving, exposed, to the air. My face feeling warm, and my legs continuing to surge forward. "Bah!" they said. "The rib cage not handling things ok? Those pussies! We can keep on going!"

And I have ever since. In fact, I think it's becoming a bit of an obssession. Something upsetting happen (as it does with alarming frequency lately)? Strap the shoes on, go for a run. Life getting you down, are you starting to go a bit crazy? Clear the head out with a run. Entertaining thoughts of grabbing the passport and catching the first flight to...oh...anywhere? A run'll sort you out.

It's keeping the scent of rabbit at bay, anyhow.

-H
everydaystranger@hotmail.com

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 01:34 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 575 words, total size 3 kb.