Blanche gets out

I finally went for my first outdoor run of the year. My girlfriend decided I was getting agorapobic (which is true, I am), and suggested that I accompany her to the beach for a run. Outside. In actual sunlight. With people around. Feeling like Dracula about to take a swim in holy water, I agreed. I put on black shorts, a black t-shirt, and tried to find black socks (no luck). I turned my ipod up loud enough to drown out the sound of snickering bystanders, my labored breathing, and the staggered thud, thud of my slow slow feet. I walked from the car to the path, took a deep breath, and tipped myself forward.

Fortunately, almost nobody was around. There was the usual dog walker trying not to tangle up eight separate leashes. There were the running pairs--thin girl or boy-girl couples bouncing effortlessly along the sand. A few teenagers dry-humped each other in the grass. An older woman walked purposefully towards the dream of a longer life.

Early on, it became clear that my bra was not taking its duties seriously. My thin shoes and thin feet seemed unable to withstand the pounding of two-hundred plus pounds slamming down on them over and over again. Yet we pressed on, the body parts swinging in crazy spirals, careening towards fitness.

It's always nice when it's over. The sky is blue, the lake is cool, the grass ripples, and the sun dries your salty sweat tears, leaving the faintest white footprints down your cheek. I thought about doing this again soon, then remembered the Memorial Day onslought just around the corner, of families and hibachis and the smell of grilled meat and the smoke so thick it chokes you. I felt agoraphobic again, then looked down and admired my calf muscle. Was it just me, or did it already look bigger and more defined?