Compromise

It's not you. It's me.

Okay. That's a lie.

It's all you. It's your incessant whining and your...your expectations. You're flashy and inconsiderate. You radiate jealousy and mock me when I'm tired. Your buttons are too easy to push. I'm spineless in your control.

There are days that I wonder if I'm going to be thrown against the wall, your power too much for me to defuse.

I plod along, one foot in front of the other, and yet I go nowhere. You run on as though there's no end in sight. Because, for you, there is no end in sight. All five feet of you could go on forever. You don't even break a sweat.

I realize I'm not who I once was. I was once consistent and loving. Now, I just hate your guts. The mere sight of you makes me want to vomit. And yet, I still visit. I still call. I push down the bile and suck it up to be in your presence.

And so, Mr. Treadmill, it's time we compromise. We're foul-weather friends at best, and I'm sick of the foul-weather. Therefore, I'm sick of you. I know that signing up for that half marathon less than six months after having a baby might have been a dumb idea, but it's done and now I need your help. I need you to lower your expectations. Turn off your happy bleeps. Stop sitting in the corner and mocking me when I come downstairs. I have 10 weeks until the race and I need to step it up. I need to get back in gear so I'm not left in the dust every Saturday morning. 13 miles is a long way to go in this body and I need all the help I can get. I need you even though I don't want you. I want the sun and the pavement. The feeling of accomplishment that is achieved because I made it the whole way and didn't cheat. Didn't cut corners to make the run a little shorter.

When I'm outside, I can't magically turn off a machine and be transported back home. There was one time on an 18 mile training run for the marathon that I sat down at the half way point and bawled my eyes out because I still had 9 miles to go. And still, I had to go the whole nine miles because that's where home was. There's no cheating. There's no beaming me back to my house and the comfort of a hot bath.

You give me the option of turning you off. You make it easy. You and your red numbers and your pace calculations and your incessant scrolling so I don't concentrate too hard on how not fast the mileage is creeping up.

I just need you for a few weeks longer and then you can go back to your corner in the dark basement and brood about your lot in life until I pull you out again in the late fall.

Work with me here, Buster. Help a girl out for once. Make it just a little easier. A little more entertaining. Make it something before I completely break down.

I'm going to be great one day and I'll thank you personally if you can get me there.

And then I'll promptly replace you with a newer model.

Respectfully yours,

Nerdy running math chic