We’ve all been guilty of it at some point. Ok, well at least I know I have been. We’re driving along in our car on our way somewhere-work, school drop-off, out to eat, wherever- and we spot some chick running. Almost instantly we hate her; hate that she is working out and we’re not, hate that she has time to work out and we don’t, hate that she is thin and we think we’re not. And so we make up scenarios in our head: Must be nice to not have to work, she clearly has no children or she couldn’t have time to be running during the day, she looks so miserable and exhausted. You catch my drift. The thing is though ladies, as you judge her from inside your car, it is very doubtful she is running along thinking, “look at this lazy asshole riding in a car,” and is probably has far too much going on in that head of hers to be worried about how you are choosing to get from point A to point B.
Here is how I wish I could respond to the questions I assign to the various judgmental stares or dirty looks I see from time to time:
I do work. In fact, I am back to work after taking six months off to recover physically and emotionally after having delivered my son via C-section, 10 weeks early and losing him only less than an hour later; so yes, I work, and some days feel like more work than others. And children? I have two. I have a three year old whose energy level could exhaust you just by looking at her; like most toddlers she is go-go-go from the second her eyes open and doesn’t stop until she is certain I am not coming back after she’s called me 12 times when I’ve put her to bed. And as I mentioned before I am the mama to a little boy in heaven; if you think it’s hard to live up to the expectations of your kids who can tell you if you’re doing a lousy job, imagine the stress of trying to do right by a child who can’t speak for themselves. I wake up early, far too early for someone who has to work 8-12 hours (depending on how difficult the day in the life of a middle-schooler is on any given day) and come home to continue being a half-decent wife and mother, to pound the pavement while my family sleeps. And miserable and exhausted? Yes, on that one you’d be correct. As I try and come to terms with the fact my life will always have an element of sadness, no matter how good it is, I have intermittent moments of misery and exhaustion; frankly, often both. And yes, my body has begun to take on the lean look runners have, however, don’t worry, I still have the jiggly belly of a new-ish mother even though I have no infant to serve as a clear explanation for why that is, it’s just hidden beneath my loose tank top.
I run to quiet my mind and ease my broken heart. I run to try and prove to myself and my worried family and friends that I am doing my best to move on living my life, no matter how much I want to just stay in bed some mornings. I run because sometimes, as much as I love my little girl and feel like I shouldn’t take even a moment for granted with her as she is the only baby I have here with me in this world, she can drive me crazy and I need a few moments to myself. I run because supposedly endorphins make you happy and I’d try just about anything to feel happy again. I run for Kennedy and I run for Jack.
So no, I don’t judge you for not running and for choosing to go to work without a beet-red face and a residually sweaty body, with your hair done nicely. Also, any judgments you may pass on me as you drive by wherever you are headed, I can assure you I am judging myself for things you couldn’t possibly see from your car window.
Alas, I can't have these conversations. As quickly as they pass me by, I'm certain these people forget they even saw me, and move on with their day. I know I always have. So my friends, I will ask this of you: The next time you pass by a woman running, cheer her on, she could probably use it.
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