Monday, November 5, 2012

When Writing is like my life

Do you ever have those weeks? You know the ones when everything goes wrong, somehow?  Or, not everything, but all the little things you count on to make life bearable when the BIG THINGS go wrong.  I mean, somehow it's OK if you car stops working if the toaster still toasts your bread. Or, you can handle those student loan letters just because you have a Timex watch that gives you not only the time of day, but also the date, the amount of time it took you to run seven miles that morning AND it just so happens to have an alarm that wakes you up precisely 8 minutes before the coffee maker starts to brew, which gives you twelve minutes of snooze time.

This was the week when all of those little things broke.

It began with the toaster. Once, my reliable morning compadre, it refused to toast anymore. Lightning strikes within (in lieu of striking workers, perhaps) announced it would warm bread no more. On a Thursday morning at 5:30 am, of course.

Then came the Timex. The plastic wrist-band miraculously disintegrated overnight to reveal, Friday morning, that it would no longer be a watch, but at best, a pocket-watch for all those who swim/bike/run with ample pockets.

I refuse to be upset about these things. It's hard to be, in fact, because these days there are so many OTHER things to get pissed off about. Toasters and Timex watches are small fry. There's student loans, for one. My latest lovely-life-detail: the letters that come en masse every day, reminding me of what a piece of scum I am for pursing an advance degree.

But I still run and swim and cycle. I'm stubborn that way.

I don't run fast, though. I wish I could. Maybe that would be the thing to make me feel better. But me and running-- well, I just don't "have it" anymore. I'm slow. So slow. I went to the gym tonight after work (since it was dark by the time I left the office and there was no way to run or bike outside) and ran a mere 4 miles before the 60 minute spin class. I swear everyone was looking at me, thinking: Look how slow that girl is running!  And she's fat!!

But I did it. I ran those stupid-awful-treadmill-slow miles and then took that spin class and sweat so much the instructor nearly slipped and fell on his ass when he tried to come over to "motivate" me.

Here is where I find myself: no toaster and no timex. I guess with my writing it's the same: no publications. Just words. Nothing that's fit to measure, in other words, or fit to consume (who likes cold, sliced bread? It's so much better toasted.) But I'm still going to do all those things I do, comfort or not.

I'm still going to run and swim and cycle no matter how slow or fat I am.

And I'm still going to write and submit those essays to journals no matter how many more rejections I get.

I'm an endurance athlete, after all. Perhaps it's time I become an endurance-writer.

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