Where I get it Wrong

A morning metaphor: Imagine a writer is not a writer, but actually a long distance runner or sprinter who runs and runs hard and wears those fancy superhero diapers as she does. Imagine that sometimes, after running and running and running various races, like perhaps both uphill and downhill, large and small —  she runs badly. Inefficiently, or just — not as good as the best. She is trying to run too many races at once. Maybe she collapses, and everyone sees. Runner critics, because those are a thing,  say —  she’s run better before, or, she was never that great of a runner to begin with. Her running is mediocre. She, sure, she can run, but really, is it all that great? She will never be on a cereal box. She will never do a tampon commercial. She feels it, too, as she lays there. Should she then tell herself, I can no longer run? She should retreat to some forgotten K and W cafeteria bury herself in mashed potatoes, she should resign to teach running to children (a perfectly noble task) or give up on running, all together?  Maybe. Yes, maybe, but also NO. She should take a moment and stretch. Lay on the carpet. Pound out her injuries. Go for a jog just for fun. She should not quit. She should rest. Then choose just ONE RACE. And just run.

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