So, you let
the waiting ensue. You’ve applied for Grad school. You’ve gotten engaged.
You’re life is literally about to start. But, there is always a “but.” Grad
school (if you get in of course) is six months away. The wedding is now less
than four (holy the hell did that get
here so fast?), and you’re still working your college job with no confirmable
end in sight. What do you do? You consider your options. What do you do if you
don’t get in? What if you’re stuck working a chimp job until your forty? Then,
you start to consider your past, and this is where you start to worry: the
waiting ceases and the questions begin.
This is
what they sound like: If I had double majored in English, would I still be
working at this Mecca
of a Latte Machine? Would I be asked by people if these donuts were made fresh
this morning? You wouldn’t be forced to quell the little voice inside your head
that told you to respond “Yes and if you come back tomorrow I’ll be sure to
throw you into the scorching Krispie Kreme conveyer belt we keep in the 10 x 10 foot back room we have!”
You ponder: if you can do anything with an English degree, why can you do
nothing with a Theatre degree? They’re not that far apart from one another. If
you had majored in Religion would you have started one of your own by now? Why
are you forced to wait another three months before you hear back from
Admissions? You guarantee yourself that no one else could have applied before
you. You ask some more. If hell exists can I just go there now while I wait for
these people to stop dragging their frickin’ feet all damn day? You’d wonder
why your boss’s boss drags his damn feet all the time, informing you in
November that after the holidays you’ll get promoted, and then when that passes
he tells you February. Then you look at your watch and it says that it’s
already the 19th day of the 2nd month, so don’t hold your
breath on that one either.
This is
when the tartan oval comes into play. Not familiar with this medieval torture
device are you? Well, let’s put it this way: the Spanish Inquisition would have
preferred this to the Iron Maiden. But this is no ordinary form of suffering.
This is self-prescribed gut wrenching interval work, my friends. 8 sexy lanes
of pure misery set against the backdrop of empty stadium seating that teases of
the roars of the crowd come May! Twelve 400s, sixteen 300s, 8 by 800 meters . One mile
under 5, followed by 2 twelves, 2 eights, and 2 fours. To hell with questions
now! Your mind has no time for such things; it is trying to figure out the best
way to get oxygen to your limbs because the normal way isn’t working. Questions
be damned! You have a 400 to run under 70 followed by a 50 meter turn and burn.
Who gives a crap about grad school!?!
Then your
mind gets in on the game. You can’t do this anymore it says. You haven’t caught
your breath from the last calf splitting interval. This is when you start to
talk back. You no longer ignore your mind like you have been your body. These are my legs not yours you scream so get used to it! Tomorrow you get a
nice long 14 miler of recovery run. Let me have my time with this red oval.
I’ll scratch my own name into it with the pounding of long spikes towards the
depths of hell. Satan himself will go wide-eyed when he feels the heat coming
off these teardrop thighs. You have no time for your insolent mind’s petty
remarks.
The smell
of track season is in the air. The cool Panhandle Winter trying to hold onto
you, but you already begin to feel the warmth of Spring on your shoulders. You
know there is a PR waiting for you come the summer; you don’t put a time to it
yet. It’s not ready, but you feel it nonetheless. This one will be worth
waiting for, because it doesn’t require you to wait on someone else. This is
your time, your sweat. This is your tartan oval. This is your 80-mile week.
The wait is
for the sedentary and their pedestrian motor vehicles.
Questions
be damned.
