I’m walking out the door in my running capris and older running shoes for a long needed day away.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I tell my boys, “I’m going to get my nails done with a friend.”
They look at me confused.
“I thought you were going running,” they say.
They know, to me, my running clothes are sacred. They’re tucked away in my drawer and are only used for running. It’s just always been that way.
“No,” I laugh, “I just don’t have any other pants that go high enough for a pedicure.”
But it’s not funny.
I’m embarrassed. I worked too hard and I ran my first half marathon in these pants. It’s not ok for them to become my pedicure pants.
In this time of resolutions, it’s easy to get caught up in grand ideas and strict regimens but I know, for me, every day is a day of resolutions. Every day I need to commit to myself.
It’s so easy for me to give. It makes me happy. My job, my kids, my husband, my house… all four limbs being pulled in different directions. I tell myself that I have nothing else to give. I don’t. I can’t give anymore without breaking.
So I’m going to commit to take.
I’ve done it before when I trained for last year’s half. It was uncomfortable, but the world didn’t end. It’s going to be the hardest resolution to keep. It’s going to require organization and scheduling and telling people no. The thought alone scares me.
But I won’t become the person I want to be without taking. Just a little bit. Consistently.
My brother messaged me the other day with a challenge to run 200 miles this year. “The gauntlet has been thrown,” he taunts at the end.
I’ll take it