Am I a runner now?

One day in July, when I was nine years old, my mother asked to take my measurements.  I asked her why - after all, she didn’t sew, and neither did anyone I knew.  She told me that my grandmother wanted to have an outfit made especially for me by a seamstress.  Being the dress-refusing, mud-adoring tomboy that I was, I instantly grimaced and protested, making it clearly known that I did NOT, under any circumstances, want a dress.  My mom allayed my fears by telling me my grandmother was going to have a jogging outfit made for me.  Now, I was not the cleverest child, because I instantly and unequivocally believed this.  I never questioned how ridiculous it might be to have jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt hand-made for a child of nine years old.  

I had never run before outside of school, nor had I shown any interest in running.  And yet, once I was told I would have a jogging outfit, I became immediately enamored with the idea.  In my mind, from the moment I put on that custom outfit that was being made just for me, I would BE a runner.  Perhaps my grandmother had sensed something inside me was yearning to be an athlete.  Maybe she had seen a glimpse of running potential in me whilst I did cartwheels in the backyard.  Whatever it was that had led my grandmother to this conclusion, I knew it had to be my destiny.  I went to bed dreaming of waking up early in the dewy and crisp autumn mornings and running around the neighborhood in my custom-made jogging clothes.  I spent hours planning out future running routes, imagining the races I would win, picturing the accolades that would adorn my bedroom walls, and thinking about how different my life was going to be when I Became.  A.  Runner.  

Summer came and went, and soon it was my birthday.  I had spent so long imagining this new, serious, important phase of my life, that I couldn’t help but be excited when I saw the rectangular wrapped box on the kitchen table on that warm September day.  I hadn’t mentioned to anyone anything about running or jogging or how excited I was about the jogging outfit I was going to have, so I can only imagine the faces of my family as I tore into the tissue-paper, and they watched my face transform from excitement to confusion.  

I held up the red, plaid, hand-made dress, complete with a white pinafore.  I looked back and forth between my grandmother and my mother - I felt betrayed, confused, horrified.  I dutifully tried on the outfit to show my family, who all loved the dress and smiled as I spun around.  They were completely oblivious to the future I had envisioned that had just been crushed by the heavy fabric of a frilly dress I was not wanting, and not expecting.

And so, at the age of ten I never woke up early to go running around my neighborhood.  I never entered into any races.  I never became a runner.  On Sports’ Days, I chose the least-demanding events and held my side as I walked towards my disappointed teammates with a cramp across the finish line in the relay race.  “Participant” ribbons were all I achieved during my childhood for sport.

So what makes me think that now, at the age of 39, I can finally fulfill my imagined childhood destiny of becoming a runner?  Who knows.  But I’ve bought the jogging outfit, so in my mind, I’m halfway there.