I started my first mile, and for some reason the crisp November air reminded me of running in track in the seventh grade. For some reason, Ms. Sutliff put me on the Mile, even though I had asthma, and I believed myself to be the worst runner in the history of middle school. A mile, four times around the track, felt relentless and like a form of purgatory. The only track practice I remember fondly was the ending of one where I experienced my first French kiss. The only track meet I remember was the one where I puked in the grass after finishing my event--the Mile. I came in fourth.
I was the fastest person on the track tonight, which made me feel good, even though I didn't have much competition. I wondered what it would feel like to run so hard I actually puked in the grass again, like I did when I was thirteen. Back then, I was running because all of my friends were in track. I hated running. Why did all of my friends have to pick such a stupid, boring sport with no ball, no goal, and no points? No strategy except to put one foot in front of the other as fast as humanly possible?
But now, now I ran for myself. Now there were many strategies. Concentrating on holding a breathing pattern, reaching one more lap and then another, letting the view of the treetops take me a few feet further. But tonight I was thinking about that kiss, and other thoughts ensued.
It seems surreal that a nobody like me kissed the star football player after my track practice. That he sought me out, though I was sweaty and no doubt feeling nauseous, and his one clear mission that afternoon was to French kiss me in front of a handle of young track and football athletes. Okay, fellow seventh graders. That was the best first kiss of my life--awkward, embarrassing, completely awful, and completely promising. It might as well have been a scene from a movie.
My love life to follow has proved to be nothing less than movie quality. I think of it in black-and-white, with a soundtrack that includes Janis Joplin, Heart, and Fleetwood Mac. My mother has always said, "You're in love with Love", and she's been right. But right now, I am not in love. I'm in fascination with past meets present, and the question "what if".
Once in awhile, I receive an email or a phone call from someone I have not seen nor heard from in years (yes, I am old enough now--have loved enough--to say years). And lately, I've received more than usual, from people I didn't think remembered me in that way. Some are from men that, as boys, I felt they were kings. Some were troubled souls I wanted to rescue, and some are ones who mutually respected me and nothing romantic ever happened when the opportunity was there. Reading between the lines is all I do during these phone calls and emails, and there is a romantic haunting quality to them that fascinates me.
Most of these ghosts are friendly Casper versions. They call, we chat, and it's just understood that we are where we are in life. But few and far between in my hauntings, boxes of feelings are opened that have been locked inside my mind for years. These ghosts (maybe two or three) are people who I will try to keep as far from my heart as possible because at one time, they ruled tyrannously, and they ruled over a girl who doesn't exist anymore. When I was in love at that time, I was overlooked by them. I was taken for granted, and I enjoyed every minute of my misery.
But not anymore. Not now that I know there is more to life than being in love. There's death and grief, and living week-to-week off of cash that isn't steady. There's deciding what you truly want to do with your life, and there's a self-discovery process where you realize how capable you are of being everything you want to be. I'm not ashamed to say that for the first time in my life, probably at the beginning of last summer when I was considering declaring bankruptcy, I stopped caring so much about love, and started to care about myself.
It is bittersweet to hear from some of my past. The only sad thing (more so for them and not me) is that I am not capable of giving the kind of love for them I once did. I am just not that girl anymore who likes to be miserable. I'd rather laugh and joke around. I guess you could say it's a no-brainer.
I'm not sure how to end this entry, and maybe it is appropriate given the subject matter to leave it hanging, let my thoughts linger off, and leave you the reader with your own reflection. Yes, I believe that will be best.
