I start walking, warming up limbs, core temperature, until I feel my blood spike. Mentally, I get myself angry, believing I’m a gorilla, big appearance, flared nostrils, beating on my chest like I’m king of the jungle. I’m where I want to be and take off at a slow pace, practically skipping, and arms by sides with hands half-fisted. Looking straight ahead, my eyebrows aim to create a unibrow to fierce my mood awake and to speed a little bit more.
The next vision I have of myself, is of a boy who believes he’s invincible through every jolt, hurt and side-stitch and shin splint in a casing of a man. I don’t view myself as a woman, for my big breasts would only drag me down to an imagined pain that society says belongs in my backside due to the fatty support in front. I view myself as the man who doesn’t wobble due to accepted hips or waist. I continue to fool myself and don’t give way to thinking my centers of gravity are where my legs live. Instead, I consider gravity high in the center of my sternum, picturing my broad shoulders to carry out the movements through like individual shoulder punches.
I agree within my being, the permit of my muscles becoming limber from the blasting heat of jogging. Fifteen minutes in, and my hunger is delightful as I battle deep inhales to pack my lungs and exhale them out gradually. With razor eyes straight ahead, I feel my body trusting me with its own tenderness. Still I wonder why my spine senses this compressed feeling. But I don’t speculate too long as I’m concerned with every second of every minute that flashes in red on the screen of the treadmill. I’m concerned by tiny jabs of syringe-like pain in my left knee. I’m more concerned about embarrassment of falling due to the freezing of my toes, how the phalanges and first metatarsal turn dead. Another five minutes, I alternate walking at a comfortable speed to tame down these dreadful sensations.
The almighty high, it has kicked in, and I’m going for the 25 minute mark, covering more distance than I’ve ever had in my thirty-two years of living and I ignore the menstrual cramps raking its long demonic nails throughout my uterus, trying to lure me its bitch. However, I’m familiar with pain. Pain is a seducer, an addictive chemical, a form of art and beauty to treasure. The more pain one allows themselves to feel, the more it scrapes inside our souls with magnitudes of hell and fallen heroes. So, I must climb out the shadowy pit, to uncover my recurrent slice of heaven, in the midst of jogging and new personal records.