this is reality.
I can pretend that I feel great every day, conquer mountains before each sunset, exude strength and stability and power with each new sunrise.
but at times days sneak in ~ like today ~ that could be placed on the far left of a gradually rising bell curve of days.
it began with too little sleep and a pre-dawn alarm. it proceeded through one of those power camp classes that make my legs go around like a little gerbil for much too long. it followed me down to the weight room where 12 pounds felt like 20 and my legs argued with me about why they should even hold me up, let alone hold me up and down while squatting and lunging. I finally sat on a big ball, legs splayed, and sighed.
at home I played mom and refrained from making (thus drinking) coffee and made three lunches and two breakfasts (I have one semi-independent teenager who can pour her own cereal, thank the Lord). I chewed through a dried out cereal bar, and drank a glass of green smoothie, shooshed my adolescents out the door and retired to the couch.
after a bit of quiet time on the couch, I ~ because I am a runner ~ went for a run.
and this is when it became clear that I was just not having a great day.
my ankle ached. then my left arch. then my gut. then my left glute, then my diaphragm, then my collarbone. then my neck.
then I felt good for about a quarter of a mile . . . and then I had to stop and walk.
it was one of the worst runs I've ever had and I finally had to accept that it just wasn't a great day.
perhaps I'm not really a runner at all.
not every day gets to be a great day. we ebb and flow, and can be grateful if the bulk of our days sit somewhere in the apex of that bell curve. there are great days when we feel when we can conquer it all, and good days when we know we can handle whatever comes our way.
and occasionally, there are days like mine today when we should probably just be glad we're moving at all.
tomorrow I hope for a day a little to the right of the apex. but I'll take what comes, because I know that it's all temporary, that my performance will wax and wane, and that what really matters is much, much deeper than what appears on the surface, and more eternal than a 35 minute athletic display.
perhaps I am still a runner.
and perhaps, more importantly, it ultimately doesn't matter.