I
stood motionless in the kitchen, barely breathing, one foot in front of the
other the way we were taught to stand at the start of the 1500 metre run at the
track meet. And then I heard it: my mom’s car disappearing down the driveway,
punctuated by the soft whirring and finally the clomp of the garage door to its
down position. She was gone. And my sister Tracey’s new George Michael cassette
tape was waiting for me upstairs. I tore up our spiral staircase,
grabbed the corner of the banister for propulsion and burst into Tracey’s room
breathless with excitement. As if on sacred ground, I tippy-toed over to her
ghetto-blaster and pressed the play button. At first I put it on such a low
volume that I had to press my ear up to the speaker just to hear it. But as
time passed and my bravery grew, I turned it up louder and louder and
eventually joined Micheal in all of his sexy splendor.
I grew up in a pretty strict family as far as music and
movies were concerned. If I ever wanted to go to a dance at school, I had to
sneak into it somehow. I made it to a dance in grade eight and I danced with a
guy named Nathan who smelled like beer. I went home that night and with pink
cheeks and a nervous tummy, I lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling above
my bed and imagined what sort of torturous eternal death that was waiting for
me after such an act.
But alas, despite my extremely convincing conscience, I didn’t
wake up in burning hellfire but in my cozy bed in North Delta.
I like pushing limits. I love the adrenalin rush of seeing
how close I can get to something dangerous, feeling the heat from the fire on
my face but being just far enough away from the flame that I don’t get burned. To
a point. As I get older and more mature (sigh…) I notice that I’m starting to
slow down and be much more deliberate and intentional in my actions. It’s
boring sometimes, but much more peaceful.
About a week ago, I took a running jump into a pool and, unbeknownst
to me, the deep end of the pool was only 5 feet deep and I ended up messing up my
knee. I can’t run. I can barely even walk. I’m not sure what this means for me
as far as running is concerned but I’ll find out more on Tuesday when I see my
physiotherapist. All I know is that this will be an opportunity for me to learn
something new about myself. Running taught me a lot about who I am. It brought
things out of the depths of my soul that I didn’t even know existed. But this?
Being injured will inevitably bring me to a whole new level of strength, I have
no doubt.
I will run again. My stupidity may have singed my eyebrows a
bit this time, but I won’t let my running shoes get burned.
