Me vs. Us

I think, despite my history of ricocheting among intermittent commitment, all-consuming fixation, and wandering focus, I am finally becoming something of a runner.

After days, weeks, months, years and years of near-obsession; after ruining what might have been a perfectly good life-long relationship; after wasting what should have been the most productive years of my youth; running and/or athleticism and my body have lost their death-grip on my psyche. My day is no longer lost or won by the turn of a workout.

I have always wanted to be this person. And despite myself, I may have even become quite fast.

I am thrilled.
I am having enormous fun.
I am tired.

This morning at the gym as I was enjoying the fruits of my previous blazing workouts, Cindy informed me that I have too much energy for my own good. The realization, after the initial shrug-off, that I was pouring all that energy out at 6am at the downtown YMCA hit me rather hard.

All I could see in the wake of Cindy's comment was an image of my 8pm self, struggling through barbies and duplos, hoping that Pip goes down quickly and easily so that I can get a little rest.

Pip was not at the YMCA with me, neither were my family and friends. The only things present at the 6am downtown Y were me and my self-centered pursuit .

I frankly don't really know what to think. I know that it is just another chapter in my never-ending saga of Deborah versus mother, but I can't seem to shake the guilt or second-guessing.

Running is a hobby of seemingly endless benefits; I get quality girl talk time with my friends, I work off stress, I fend off depression, I get outside, and I rejoice in the shear physical pleasure of it all. But it comes at a price to everything else.

So where do I end as an individual and begin as a mother? I know that I need to feed myself in order to optimally care for my baby, but where does (should) the dividing line fall?

I expect to be wresting with this for eons to come.


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