why I like how running makes my face turn red.

I think it’s funny when people mention my weight.

Or rather, lack thereof.

Sometimes I smile and agree and say, Yep. I’m a thin one, and sometimes I recommend the simple, My-husband-had-an-affair-and-that’s-not-even-half-of-it-diet.

Which response do you think makes people feel like they wish they had just never mentioned my weight in the first place?

And it’s weird, sometimes I will just stare at my legs or my arms or my fingers and I will marvel how they are me. Still me, I mean. Because I should look different now, after everything that’s happened, I mean.

There’s this line from Justin Timberlake’s song, Like I Love You, that says, If it’s up to me your face will change. It always stands out to me. And not just cause Justin sings it and let’s face it, he’s dreamy. But I always thought he was referring to how your face should reflect whatever is happening on the inside.

And that’s what surprises me sometimes; that I still look the same.

Minus, I suppose, the platinum hair and some bad*** roots.

I remember going back to work after I found out just a little bit of what was going on–not the whole sinking titanic of the story, per se, but the tip of the iceberg was finally visible. And I remember putting on my makeup before my show and just staring at my face, wondering how my eyes were still that same color. Cause, you know, they used to look at the world like we were all friends, like there was some sort of sensible bartering system that I was a part of. I’d give my best and then I’d get that in return. I didn’t realize that history has a strange way of repeating itself. That I’d let someone in, show him everything I knew about life and love, and then get a blanket full of smallpox in return.

It wasn’t a good idea then and it isn’t a good idea now, but turns out people are still handing them out like candy. And it also turns out that the Native Americans aren’t the only ones trusting enough to reach out and grab them.  And then die for their efforts.

Or nearly die, anyway.

And then there’s something else, too.

Running.

I started doing it back in December, I guess. I hurt so much that it was either beat myself up in a way that looked healthy–at least from the outside–or run right into walls. Also, the endorphins didn’t hurt. And you don’t get nearly as many endorphins from just running into a wall. And yes, I know.

So I’d go to the YMCA and I’d listen to P!nk.  She has written songs that are mad enough at some jerk, that sometimes I wonder if we’ve talked before. You know, compared notes. I mean, come on:

If someone said three years from now
you’d be long gone
I’d stand up and punch them out
cause they’re all wrong.
I know better cause you said forever
and ever, who knew?

And sometimes it felt like the choice was either to run in circles at the Y, or to run away forever. And, well, my family was going through enough without having a runaway on their hands too.

And the thing is, I always hated running. Mostly because it hurt so much, I guess. And maybe that was a part of why I chose to do it; it helped to feel all that hurt on the inside matching all the hurt on the outside too. Felt consolidated. It was like what Justin said, my face was changing. Or at least turning red and I was panting for breath, which is something.

But then I was running today and I suddenly realized that I wasn’t running cause I was so mad anymore. And I wasn’t running cause I hurt so much anymore, either. Not that I’m no longer mad at all. And God knows, it’s not like there aren’t black little tear marks on my pillow from crying before I washed off my mascara for the night.

But now, I ‘m listening to Kanye’s Stronger while I run. And I’m thinking about how it can be true, anyway: that which don’t kill me, can only make me stronger. And I’m thinking about how my brother texted me this question:

do you really think life will be okay a few years down the road?

And how I wrote him back this:

do I think life will be okay? I think it will be beautiful; it will be a summer day that is finally clear again–cause all the dust and humidity will be washed away from the violence of the storm.

And I think about how those aren’t just words, but I truly believe them. I feel them in my bones. And everybody knows that bones don’t lie. And how strange, cause my bones are so busy running now, and I kind of like it. And I’m not feeling that jumpy need to run away so much anymore; I’m kind of content to run in circles, since that seems to be  my other and better option right now.