Control
While driving home last night there must have been a particularly unstimulating piece on NPR because I found myself daydreaming hardcore. I was thinking, why did I start running? It seems so un-me. As someone who has taken countless Myers Briggs tests I have consistently scored as a 100% extrovert. I’m pretty sure the only people who do that are exhibitionists and Neil Patrick Harris. So why did I choose such a lonely sport? Surely it couldn’t possibly be to spend more time dissecting every wrong move I feel I have made in my life, I mean, Jesus, even the grand dame of neuroticism needs a mental coffee break every once in a while.
So I think I figured it out: it’s about the control. When I’m running I don’t have to deal with your bullshit. I don’t have to deal with you telling me to pass you the ball because you can make the basket. I’ve had a lifetime of passing the ball to others. Even in group sports there are always the MVPs (I think—I’m not very good with sports as evinced by the fact that I asked my 2-year old if the Superbowl was last weekend. He said yes, by the way which only confirms that he is an unreliable narrator.)
Do people pass me when I’m running? Oh, you betcha. Do people pass me in life? Hey, all the time. But somehow I’m able to forgive myself with running, in a way I never have been able to do with life. No matter how much I studied, I’d never be the smartest. No matter how much I dieted, I’d never be the prettiest. No matter how much I practiced, I’d never be the most talented. No matter how much I worked, I’d never be the most successful. And those things tore me up, to my core—honestly, sometimes they still do. But running is different. I KNOW I will never be the fastest but I will finish and that is good enough. Maybe it’s because a race is a tangible thing—I just have to get to the finish line. I don’t know. But I do know that running and making it to the end is the only thing REALLY REALLY REALLY in my control. I can’t control how fast I make it, but I can control the fact that I will cross the finish line—through sweat, practice or, most likely, sheer stubbornness.
Perhaps it is time to apply this fuck it all and go attitude to the rest of my life. Control or not, at some point I’m going to reach the finish line of life and I’d rather race and come in last then be a ‘did not start.’
