I Want to Run a Marathon

But I don’t like running or doing hard things.

None of these legs are mine. (Photo from ChiccoDodiFC at BigStock.com)

I want to run a marathon.

I’m not a runner. Like. NOT a runner. Like, joined a CrossFit gym last year because on TV I’ve seen them flip tires and climb rope ladders and lift heavy things and never run and give me a thousand heavy things and I’ll lift and I’ll lift and I’ll lift but when you ask me to run down to the end of the driveway, cross my two lane neighborhood street and jog up to my neighborhood mailbox I’m already tired.

I’m already tired.

I’m not a runner like I was homeschooled and I never had to run any number of miles in any number of minutes because I never went to gym class and no one really gave a fuck if I ran or stayed still. And I was only ever in a hurry to grow up and graduate and get noticed and get married and get fucked and make babies and make banana bread with the perfectly ripened bananas that hang on that little wooden banana tree passed down from my grandmother to my mom to me and I am not in a hurry because I am already tired.

I’m already tired.

I get vomity, nauseous, heartsick of the very idea of making mistakes in public. I have dotted every goddamn “I” and crossed every motherfucking “T” but I have never crossed a finish line that had anyone judging anything. I…