Chapter Thirteen
Present
I’ve opened and closed the sturdy lid of the orange box I brought home from Jock and Jill a handful of times over the past week but have yet to remove the shoes.
I have three more days to return them for a full refund; otherwise, I will end up with store credit for a shop I am unlikely to patronize again.
I forgot to buy an appropriate pair of sweat-wicking socks to go with my new sneakers, so I’m making do with a mismatched footie and ankle crew situation.
I’m wearing my triangle tankini swim top from several years ago because it’s too small, making it the most constrictive sports bra–like device I own.
The sun is on its way down, so I know Mrs. Pitts and her collection of dachshunds have had their final walk of the day and most of my neighbors have brought in their garbage bins from the curbside.
Last night, from the comfort of my living room with my boxed new sneakers in my lap, I pulled out my phone to seek advice on how to start running.
It seemed easy enough—just put your shoes on and go—but if there are whole stores dedicated to running paraphernalia, and that Chap guy has his own video channel on the topic, then there must be more to it than my walking-only mind knows.
Reddit: How do I start running?
Nicole89: It’s easy, put one foot in front of the other.
Of course it’s that easy for a woman possibly born the year I graduated high school.
FearlessRunr: Start with five easy miles and work up from there.
Next.
RonRuns: Best thing to do is run right into my arms if you like long walks on the beach and baby talk as foreplay.
Yuck.
Truthwillsetyoufree66: Stop making excuses just put on your shoes and go you lazy ass.
Well, that’s kinda harsh.
Momonthemove: Five minutes. To begin, all you have to do is run for five minutes.
Five minutes. All I have to do is run for five minutes, and then I can come back home. No paying for a class. No mirrors. No one hurling insults at me, masked as drill-sergeant motivation. I can do anything for five minutes, right?
Tonight, sneakers on, I stand and hop up and down on my toes a few times like I watched the guy in the suit do in the running store. I feel a little arthritis in my left big toe, and my stomach jiggles, but my sciatica doesn’t flare, which is lucky. I do have to pee, though.
Pulling up my tights after flushing, my finger catches my estrogen patch, and it peels off.
I place it back next to my belly button, but it slips into the crotch of my leggings.
I don’t think I’ll implode from nose-diving hormones before I can slap on a new one, so I’ll fish the old patch out later.
Walking by the kitchen sink on my way to the back door, I stop for one more sip of water.
I’m pretty sure I didn’t drink enough in the heat of the summer day, and I don’t want dry mouth on my run.
Ick. I didn’t clean the sink very well from making cookies to deliver to the attendants at Mercy, my weekly bribe to keep them from smothering my mother in her sleep, so I’ll quickly give it a wipe down.
Drying my hands, I pause. Did I drink too much water and have to pee again?
Checking myself out in the mirror before I leave, a new thought occurs to me: Am I too old to wear a high ponytail?
I take out the rubber band and gather my long chestnut hair into a statelier low pony.
Now I look like my Aunt Fran. I pull my hair back up high and notice that it’s time to make an appointment to remind my roots what color they used to be.
Is that an age spot on my chin or peanut butter remnants from lunch?
My ponytail reminds me of when I was in my thirties, leading me to recall that Thomas and I have a telenegotiation meeting with our lawyers on the thirtieth.
I backtrack to the fridge and write that down on the magnetic whiteboard, where I used to list reminders to John and Andrew about what they needed to pack for after-school activities. I also add “Call colorist.”
I peek in the dog jar and see that I have one cigarette left.
If I make it for six minutes rather than five, I promise myself I can have it, because this is the last one I’m having, ever.
I think. The washer triple-dings, and I take a moment to separate the sheets that have twisted together and put them in the dryer.
No one wants moldy-smelling sheets from sitting damp for too long.
I look down at my watch. It has taken me forty-two minutes to mentally gear up for five. Five minutes, Momonthemove advises. All I have to do is run for five minutes.
Finally out the door, I think of my recent four-way stop-sign fiasco and slow my pace, which is almost impossible since I’m only shuffling down the sidewalk.
I jog in place, looking right, left, then right again, before crossing the street.
If I could ask, I’m pretty sure Momonthemove would say jogging in place doesn’t count, so I grudgingly subtract my curb break from my trudge to six minutes and my final cigarette.
Seven blocks down, one more to go, and I will have successfully avoided seeing anyone on my street as I plod along the pavement, feet falling heavily, breath growing more and more labored.
I touch each mailbox I pass as evidence that I am actually moving forward, making progress.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older gentleman across the street walking his dog in the same direction I’m going.
Mid-block, he passes me by, and when I reach the next crosswalk, he has already turned and disappeared.
Glancing at my watch, I see that I have twenty seconds left.
I see a fire hydrant a quarter of the way into the next block.
I blow out a big breath, put my head down, and pick up my speed.
According to SpeedySteve22, you should try to sprint at the end of your runs.
There was no explanation why, and I am questioning his advice as I pump my arms to get my lower body racing.
The tight seams of my shirt are causing friction against my upper arms as they swing against my side boobs.
No wonder Jock and Jill were almost sold out of Butt’r for Udd’rs.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
I grasp on to the hydrant to steady myself as I wheeze so piercingly I fear the people in the surrounding houses might come out to shoo away stray cats they imagine are mating in their front yard.
From somewhere around me, I hear chatter growing louder.
It’s only one voice, and I am too focused on catching my breath to look up and see who may be talking to themselves and if I should step out of their way.
If only I could move. I may be mugged for my new sneakers before sunset, and I don’t have the energy to care.
“Callie?” a surprised voice inquires.
Still heaving, I look up and catch the best-looking calves I have ever seen attached to lean, defined quads. I have seen legs like that before, but not since waiting on my college boyfriend to finish up the occasional football practice held at the track.
“Hi again. I’m the guy you almost hit a few weeks back.
” Chap waves his brand-new phone in my face to spark my memory.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks, reaching his hand out to help peel me off the hydrant.
“If you’re trying to catch your breath, leaning over is the worst thing you can do.
You need to stand up straight and walk it off. Here, let me help you.”
Lately, no one’s offered to help me other than my lawyer at the steep price of $575 an hour. I used to get attention from construction workers, pilots, and car mechanics, but in the last decade, any glances, let alone full stops, have, well, stopped. Until Chap.
“Chap?” I put my hands over my eyes to block the sinking sun, making sure I’m seeing correctly since a few drops of sweat are blurring my vision.
“You remember,” he replies, sounding surprised, and his high-wattage smile grows wider.
“I just ran six minutes and”—I check my watch—“twenty-three seconds.” After it comes out of my mouth, I recognize this must sound like the lamest victory in the history of sport.
“That’s what’s up! How you feelin’?” Chap squeezes my hand to congratulate me, but also to keep me upright and walking.
“Like shit,” I pant out honestly. But maybe I lost a pound from all the effort?
“Sounds right. But think about it, you just ran more than anybody else at home sitting on the couch. And that’s most people.”
“Thanks for trying to make me feel good.” I let go of Chap’s strong grip and dismiss his words with a wave of my fingers, feeling like a silly woman for completing something that takes about as long as it does for water to boil.
“I’m not trying to make you feel good; you should be doing that all on your own.” I give an appreciative half smile at what I can only assume are Chap’s practiced words meant to motivate a bunch of high school boys who’d rather be at home lazily scrolling through their phones. Like me.
“I bet you make a great coach,” I respond, desperate to take the attention off me but proving to Chap I remember he coaches young runners.
“About that, I wouldn’t know. My uncle’s my boss, and he’s pretty tight with the compliments.” Exactly what the world needs: another grown man with limited emotional intelligence. “I’m headed over to meet my running club in McKinley Park. I was getting a few miles in first. You wanna come with me?”
“Where?” I ask, confused.
“To meet up with my running club.”
What little moisture I have left in my mouth spits out a burst of laughter.
“What’s so funny? We’re always looking for new members. I’m in charge of texting people to make sure they show up, so lucky for me that new phone was delivered quickly.”
“Ah. Well, I’m glad your phone got replaced, and thanks for the invitation,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.
“But I think being passed by an elderly power walker is enough humiliation for one day.” Though Chap has gifted me with my first congratulations after my one run, my ego would not survive a club where everyone is fast and trim, like him.
“Alright, but if you change your mind, we meet Wednesdays at 6:30 p.m. Lots of people like you are part of the club.” What does he mean, lots of people like you? Female? Old? Oddly shaped? Recently dumped? Shamed by their physician?
“I think I should call it quits for today,” I say, turning around, indicating I’m ready to hobble home.
“Okay, but don’t forget: Wednesdays at 6:30 p.m. Trust me, it’s more fun to run with a group than alone.” I think he’s mistaking a group setting with it being more fun not to exercise at all.
Chap flashes me a mischievous grin and nudges my soft shoulder with his sculpted one. “And I have your number,” he says, charmingly, before he takes off at a sprint. I can’t help but wonder if he might use it.