I Feel Old

I know I’m too young to say this, but sometimes there are moments where I forget that I’m not 17 anymore.  And when the reality of my 25 years of age hits me, it’s really quite sad.

In the moment, I don’t think “Wow I feel like I’m 17” (or 19, or 23 – all numbers that were great ages and that I sometimes feel I will always be).  Rather, it’s in the midst of the moment that I realize I am 25.  And it’s when I remember that I’m 25 that I remember that I’m not 17 anymore.

I’m not in high school, I’m not in college.  I have to be responsible.  I can’t play all the time. Nobody is around to take care of me.  I have to make good decisions. 

Actually, I was always responsible.  I rarely played.  And I have always made good decisions.  Perhaps it is in moments like these that the sadness I feel is more of a mourning – a mourning of the irresponsibility I didn’t permitted myself, the playtime I didn’t have, the independence I asserted, the bad choices I never allowed myself to make.

I can’t think of a concrete example that has spurred this feeling, but it has happened several times in the past couple weeks.   It’s kind of a small burden that sets itself upon me and says, “You’re 25, Jen.  You have responsibilities.  People look up to you.  You have to take care of yourself; others won’t take care of you.  You can have fun, be lighthearted for a moment, but life is serious now.” 

You’re a grown up.

My cute grandma is upwards of 75 years old.  Last spring, as she jumped onto the back of a moving golf cart, she rolled into me, laughing, and said, “Sometimes, I just pretend to be old.”  I will never forget this, and every time I think of it, I smile.  Let me be always young at heart. 

A Little 'bout Love

Every time I'm with the girls, I find myself thinking about love.  What it means, how it's manifested, and - ultimately - overwhelmed with the selfless love I receive from them.  Filled with thankfulness that I am in a place where I can love them back.  Inspired by their dreams, humbled by their honesties.  Many of them are facing changes - please keep them in your prayers. There are a lot more thoughts where these came from, but they are still simmering.  For now, the blog will be brief.  In the meantime, let this image bring a smile to your face: every time I visit, at least 2 of them RUN to meet me the minute they spot me walking through the ragi field.  They run as if they haven't seen me for years...but I just visited last week.

Thanking my Pride

“We have a run on March 4, Jeni.  It is not compulsory, but I am telling you that you must do it.”  That was the primary trainer at the gym on February 15.  I hadn’t been to the gym for 2 ½ weeks.  I hadn’t run since June.  I explained this and asked if she thought I could. “yes, yes, you have been quite regular here, you can.”  Hm.  Thanks Sumitra, but 5 minutes on the bike, circuit training and toning are hardly comparable to running 3 miles.

The next day Raji asked if I was running.  I said yes (because I have no excuse not to), and she asked which.  I said the 5k.  She told me I couldn’t. Which means of course that the 5k is the race I signed up for....I love the challenge of doing things people tell me I can't do.

Pride got me into it.

Pride kept me in it – I started running alternate days at the park before going to the gym for toning. I had to report to Raji how many minutes I ran and show her my watch to prove it. (I did catch her bragging that I had doubled my time in just a week; it's nice to know she's proud of me).
Runs 1, 2, and 3 I was in awe at how God has created my body to move, to breathe, to circulate blood, to be pushed beyond what the mind thinks it is capable of.  I found myself very thankful - both to my pride for getting me into this mess, and God for giving me a body that allows me to run.

Runs 4, 5, and 6 (aka the week of the race) I started kicking my pride because I absolutely didn’t feel prepared at all.  But I had to complete – I had to finish, and I had to prove that I could.

Today was the 5k.  Pride made me run the whole entire time.  The gym staff were stationed along the race route, but I had no idea where my trainers were.  Therefore I ran out of fear that they would see me walking.   Not to mention I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it – me, Jen, who loathed running the mile in middle school and was always one of the last to cross the finish line.  Here I was, running for fun.

I have always wanted to be a runner; always wanted to run a race.  But I was never forced to.  Strangely, now I find myself thanking my pride instead of kicking it.  And on Tuesday morning I will be at the park again, and not I have to follow through on a commitment I made out of pride.  Because I like it.

Olympic Runners

This morning I went for a walk around my neighbourhood.  Tomorrow is my 5k so I didn't want to work out, but I also didn't want to let my muscles lie dormant.  The sun was rising, and one of my absolute favorite things about morning in India is the way the new sun shines through the dust.

As I was smiling about that, I tripped.  I believe I have mentioned it before, but Bangalore isn't exactly a pedestrian-friendly city.

This got me thinking about Olympic runners.  I always love the short biographical documentaries that they make about the "hopefuls", the "underdogs", and the "bests".  The ones of runners from Africa are always so serene and inspirational; may fave is always the aerial shot of the runner taking beautifully long strides down a dirt road with nothing else in sight.

I laughed out loud.  I would love - LOVE - to see a short doc about a runner born and brought up in Bangalore (or any other "developing" city with a population of multimillion, at that).  It would start with the new morning sun shining through the dusty air and gleaming on the colorful buildings.  And then show the Olympic hopeful dodging uneven bricks and jumping over holes in the sidewalk that leave the open sewer a dangerous variable to your morning run.  The arial view would zoom out slowly - first, the runner.  Then, a dog will start to bark.  and chase him/her.  another dog would join.  and another. and another.  Two old men would walk by, arms in mountain pose, as they do their morning yoga walks.  The woman sweeping the street doesn't even look up as the runner passes by, and s/he gets a faceful of garbage-filled dirt.  A bike comes out of nowhere and the runner has to jumps out of the way to avoid getting hit.  An auto was on the other side of the bike, and honks loudly, swerving in the exact same direction as the runner, who then has to dead halt to avoid another deathly collision.  It would be even better if the auto was on its morning school route, which means that there are about 14 children inside and the runner is kind enough to stop to pick up the books that they dropped as a result of the swerve.

Wow.  It sounds more like a video game than a biographical short.  And I'm getting tired just thinking about it...but I'm smiling big.  Please, India, bring some city-runners to the Olympics.  I want to watch the story of their runs. In fact, I would probably find them more inspirational than the peaceful and reflective films from the plains of Africa.  If someone can become an Olympian by running through Bangalore, there's hope for us all.