To My Ex.

I’m glad it ended, but can we be friends?

I don’t miss the injuries, but the adrenaline was nice.

Dear Running,

You did a number on me.

Illiotibial band issues, tight hips, and a lower back that didn’t remember its purpose until we went back to strength training. (The last thing they recommended for rest and recovery. Ha!)

You also shoved me into yoga. Class by class at the JCC, hunching into Downward Dog with my tail between my legs, hopingprayingstretching to believe that it was the right thing to do for my body.

So really, you’re the reason we broke up. You’re the one who introduced me to other forms of training. Will you blame me for falling in love with them?

In that respect, I owe you thanks. (Grudgingly.)

I talk smack about you sometimes. “Running is horrible for your joints. It’s a repetitive motion. Treadmills are the death of hips and knees.”

Yet the more I talk to runners, the more I remember the good parts of our relationship.

The freedom.

The adrenaline.

The high.

You got me exploring the nooks and crannies of our neighborhood, pummeling me into shape to finish high school.

So I’ll admit: sometimes I miss us.

Like in the park, barefoot against the wading pedestrians, wondering what it would be like to dump the backpack and sprint.

And in the dojang, barefoot again for Laps O’Clock. Pass the flags once, it’s one. Then two. Ten in each direction.

But I don’t miss you on the crosswalk, when the red blinking hand says, “Stay!” and the clock says, “Go, you moron!”

I don’t miss you later in the year, when it’s freezing outside and covered in slush.

We might see each other again. Who knows.

I think I’ve already forgiven you.