Realizing that the conversation was not going to go the way I had hoped, I said good-bye to John and headed out of the lobby. My frustration was boiling over like a full pot of potatoes. There was the small consultation prize of knowing he agreed with me but he wasn’t planning on doing anything about it. John is a pleasant enough person to be in the boat with but I had the feeling no one had pulled up the anchor. I was done with it all.
I need to release tension. I wanted a drink. No, I wanted my Go To.
Ten minutes later, I’m walking into the fitness room in exercise clothes that had seen skinnier days. Never mind, I thought to myself, I dare anyone to say something. After all, this night wasn’t about the clothes, how I looked in the clothes, or even how I could look better in those clothes. It was about going to my Go To.
I’ve got my arms and legs pumping. I’m striving for something. I press myself to go faster, urging my body to work harder. I’m searching for a feeling, a physical representation of the mental frustration I endured earlier. I need to feel exhaustion in my lungs, my legs, and my arms. I need to deplete my energy reserves. I need to run.
Finally, I’m done. I’m gasping for breath. It’s a struggle to walk normally. Plus, it’s late in the evening so I rid myself of the salty residue and climb into bed for sweet oblivion.
The next morning, I feel so much better. It’s as though my body tapped into my frustration as though it were fuel for a race or a recovery drink or both. I am rested and optimistic. My head is clear, and I am ready to conquer the next obstacle.
I have running. It’s my Go To.