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Where the Magic Happens

“Sure, it’s a beautiful place, but nothin’ ever grows there.”

My mom was a star athlete growing up and I always wanted to excel at sports to be just as impressive and tough as she was.  I, however sucked royally at sports and was a frail and weak little thing who often got beat to a bruised pulp by the smallest of pushes and shoves on a basketball court.  Oh, and I had the coordination of a stork running a slow start and stop obstacle course with a baby tied in a blanket around its neck.  Yeah,  not a pretty sight.

Even though I was horrible, I was determined, and after making a basket for the opposite side somewhere around 7th grade, I was banished from the basketball team. Somewhere along that time, I decided TRACK would be my focus.

Track was an easy enough sport to participate in,  I mean just show up, run fast in a straight (or curved) line and cross a finish line right?  Voila.  Done and done-zo. I was fast and I was decent.  Only problem was, I despised running.  Running  made me nauseated, as if I would toss-up my post toasties at any time.  Running made me irritable, agitated and angry.  Waking up at 5:30 am to start the early morning track team hoopla felt brutal to me.  I wanted to put on makeup, curl my hair, doll up and eat a leisurely breakfast while painting my fingernails before school.  I did NOT want to work out, freeze my arse off and sweat my cover girl clean makeup into oblivion before 9am.

Every morning, like punishment style clockwork, I put on that hideous, ill-fitting, dull gray, school issued sweat suit.  Mine was extra skeezy with faded lettering and a missing sweatshirt hoodie string.  GAAAAHD is there anything more annoying than a hoodie missing its string?  Just a flapping piece of displaced fabric where an ear warmer should be.  ANYWAY, every single morning I felt like I was going to hurl up lung butter and (more often than not) could be found puking up pancakes on the side of the track while intermittently carrying on with two hours of 20 minute timed sprints.  I hated life.

One Saturday while driving home from a very successful track meet, my dad said, “How do you like track?”

How do I like track? I thought, HOW DO I LIKE TRACK? How can you even ask me that stupid question?  I hate track, it’s horrible and it’s ruining my life. I literally want to DIE rather than ever go to another practice in this LIFETIME. I’m SICK of running and TIRED of 6 am sprints and I wish my coach would move to a third world country and forget my name.  I want to BURN my school issued track suit and DANCE while the flames grow higher! The thoughts grew stronger and stronger, running through my mind.  However, the only words uttered out of my mouth were,

“It’s Fine.”

“You sure looked amazing out there”, he replied. “Great job”

Yep, for good or bad there it was,  Dad had just killed the comfort zone. I knew now that words like amazing would never happen if I stayed within it.

DANG.  IT.   

May your hoodie have a new string. May you skip the pancakes & save the lung butter.


Birdee Bow

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