I’ve never run a marathon. I probably never will. So the idea of referencing one here is somewhat absurd, but I feel somewhat justified in doing so.
If the past eleven years of my life don’t qualify as some sort of virtual marathon, then I don’t know what would.
And here’s the thing about marathons… they’re 26.2 miles.
Not 19.7 or 22.8 or 24.1 miles.
Twenty-six point two.
And in my little virtual marathon of life, I’m tired.
Tired is actually an understatement of offensively whopperish proportions.
I am head-hanging, chest-heaving, don’t-look-at-me-or-I-might-puke exhausted.
All I want to do at the moment is just sit here on the sidelines of my marked route and not move.
And think about things like breathing in and breathing out.
About sleeping and never having to put another foot in front of the other.
Because as far as I can see ahead, there is no finish line.
And the route isn’t paved.
It’s uphill, overgrown, marred by ankle-deep mud and occasional loose rocks.
And when I’m this tired I can’t help wondering to myself…
What if this is what the rest of my route looks like? What if there’s never another dry, smooth path? What if the rest is all uphill? What if every remaining mile is overgrown with thorns and poison oak?
So here I sit.
Contemplating the path ahead in-between ragged breaths.
And then I think to myself, what if this is mile marker twenty-five?
What if I’m almost there?
And I realize that I don’t really want to quit.
That it’s OK to be tired.
That I’m not a failure because I need to stop and catch my breath.
That resting doesn’t have to equate to giving up.
So don’t mind me while I sit here for a bit.
You go on ahead… I’ll catch up.