Running to the Future

         Water? Check. iPod? Check. Track suit? Check. Expensive running shoes that will most likely end up collecting dust in my closet? Check.



         Sighing, I pat the flaps of fat which lay around what I once called my waist. They form around my abdominal region like a life preserver, as though their sole purpose is to protect my body from the harsh realities of aging, and the rampage of health foods my husband, or rather ex-husband, tried to push on me throughout our marriage. I remember the one time he tried to cram a rice cake down my throat.



         “What is this, cardboard?!?” I had exclaimed wheezing, as I desperately clawed for a drink.



         “That,” he had proclaimed triumphantly, with a smug look, “is nutrition, and what you are severely lacking in life.”



         But that was not what had been lacking in my life. It had been a supportive husband.  Or more importantly, a faithful husband.  No less than a week after the rice cake incident I found him cheating on me with some cow from his office, a secretary with mousy hair and an annoying habit of chomping her gum.



         But you know what? She's more than welcome to have him. Was I a little upset in the beginning? Yeah. Who wouldn’t be after six years of marriage? But now that I look back, she is more than welcome to enjoy the company of that lying, cheating, health-nut Whole Foods hippie. It’s only a matter of time before she’ll grow sick of swallowing “organic supplements” and “gluten-free pasta.” And shortly after that, she’ll grow even more tired of swallowing his seemingly endless supply of bull.



         He’s not my problem anymore. He’s hers. After a legal battle I’d rather not go into details over, I’ve managed to gain a nice little settlement. He took the dog. I took the house and a couple of other valuables. Fortunately, there were no kids involved with this mess. I had desperately wanted kids of my own, but he had refused. In his usual fashion, he came up with some excuse of “decreasing the surplus population.” Interestingly enough, I just recently figured out he took this quote from Ebenezer Scrooge in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. That should’ve been a red flag...



         But it’s no matter. I’m a free woman now. Maybe I'll adopt. But for now, all I worry about is running. Maybe I’m naïve, thinking a middle-aged woman can snap back to the body she had years ago when she ran cross country in high school. Maybe this energy is just a by-product of a mid-age crisis. But for the first time in a long time, I feel the need to run. While some people run from the past, I run to the future. And with this mindset, I step outside into the morning mist.



         It’s one of those cold New England mornings in the fall that everybody always talks about, and within seconds, I can feel the clammy moisture seep into my bones. But I don’t allow that feeling to remain for long, and tentatively, I jog towards the park. As I enter, leaves crackle beneath my feet, and I nod in acknowledgement towards a man on the bench reading the paper.



         Pausing only briefly, I insert my headphones into my ears, and turn my iPod to full volume. My sole focus turns to jogging, and I zone out all external distractions.



         Twenty minutes later. I’m trying my best not to give into the pain searing throughout my lower calves. I’m sweating profusely, and taking in gasping breaths. Chugging from my water bottle, I try to calculate the minimum pace I can jog while maintaining the maximum amount of my dignity.



         Ten minutes later. Dignity is thrown out the window and I’m crawling at a snail’s pace. In total and utter frustration, I rip my headphones from out of my ears and turn of my iPod.



          I decide to take in nature’s soundtrack instead of listening to the horrific Euro pop which somehow managed to get onto my jogging playlist. And as I listen to the wind whipping through the crisp autumn leaves, I can't help feeling a sense of security I haven’t felt since my divorce. Closing my eyes, I hear birds chirping. But my solace is shattered by the sound of a yapping dog and its equally shrill owner’s shouting.



         “Toby! Toby, no! Stay away from that lady! We don’t jump on strangers! No! Tobbbbyyyyyy!!!”



         Toby? No. I freeze and feel the hairs upon my neck stand. But this brief paralysis is broken as a tiny yorkie barrels its way into the back of my thighs.



         “No! Toby! What did I tell you? Bad dog. Bad, bad, dog!”



         Behind me I can hear the disgruntled dog-owner struggling to catch up with her pet. Judging from the clacking, she’s wearing stilettos clearly not suited for an early walk in the park.



         Turning around, I bend down and scratch behind the dog’s ears.

         

         “Hey there, boy.  How’s it going?”

         

         In response the dog wags its tail, and slobbers on my hand.



         “Ma’am, I am so, so, sorry,” she manages to gasp out to me in one breath. “He usually doesn’t do that unless it’s somebody he knows.”



         “It’s okay,” I mumble.

         

         “No really, I’m truly...sorry...”



         I draw myself to full height and turn to face her.  I see the light drain from her eyes and become replaced with guilt. With fear. It’s her. The cow that stole my husband. Here with Toby. His dog. Formerly our dog.



          I look at her.



         “You were saying?” I ask.



         “I just...wanted to say...sorry...” she stutters, her face turning red.



         For a moment, we stand silent. But the moment passes and I break eye contact with her, trying to hold back the tears in my eyes.



         “Of course you are,” I reply choking back a sob, as I stick my headphones back in my ears.



         “Of course you’re sorry.”

         

         And with that I run away.