"Mom, I'm out of here!" I yell over my shoulder as I reach for my purse, my keys, pat the cat on the head, then head for the door. I'm wearing a t-shirt that I stole from my mother, that I'm waiting for her to notice that I stole. The sleeves of it are rolled up, and tucked underneathe my bra straps. My , very short, black shorts are riding up a little further than I want them too. I've got new Newbalance running shoes on my feet. I'm wearing those stupid socks that only go back your ankle, and my hair that I spent so much time on that morning, is tossed up into a messy ponytail. I've got my Mp3 Player in hand, and, ironically enough, a Rocket Popsicle in the other hand.
"What?" My mother yells from her perch in her brown chair.
The door slams.
I'm on my way into town for a jog.
I always thought that jogging was a little stupid. The people that did it never looked as though they were having any fun. They had beads of sweat soaking down onto their worn-out, baggy t-shirts, and their expressions said anything but "please, stop, chat with me, look at me, I'm having the time of my life". In fact, they kind of looked as though they were being chased by lions, or that they personally enjoyed torturing themselves.
But on my usual route of walking (my first love, my first involvement in excercise) through my small town, I took a detour behind my old high school. I saw a long stretch of grey road, free from bends and winds, and I decided to go for it. I jogged from my high school down to my family's business, where my brother looked at me as though I had lost my marbles, and was being chased by a group of hooligans. Afterall, his sister, doesn't run, there must be some band of perverts waving around wooden sticks with flames on the ends saying my shorts are too tight, or something to that affect.
The day following my little run/walk, I felt as though my legs were going to fall off. Each one had a kind of pain that seemed to throb whenever I did anything that involved any muscle in my body. My abdominal muslces ached, and my mother had threated to kill me twice becaus I was complaining of the pain so much.
That was three weeks ago. Now that run that I do is so easy. The pain that I have is gone, and my mother wonders if she should also purchase an MP3 Player. She also wants Facenose Book...she's hip!
I never dreamed that I'd be a jogger. In high school I was anything but an athlete. I had the type of care towards being an athlete that I do about taking care of my CDs, and let me tell you, my country music is piled up beside another pile of CD cases. The only Cds that don't skip are my mother's that I've borrowed, and my new ones...but give it time!
But, I ditched my old history, for making a new one. After four months of walking my buns on the treadmill at 4 miles per hour, and then doing the same when I returned home from college, I decided that I'd give jogging a try.
It wasn't until the beginners pain of running was gone, I found a new anti-persperent, and some good tunes that I realized exactly how much I was really enjoying myself out there on the silver roads of my town. In the past three weeks, I've only missed two nights of running. I ran tonight, I'll run tomorrow, and the next, and probably the next. I'll also probably trip and land flat on my face.
When I find myself just wanting to sort out my thoughts, when I want to just be alone, when I just want to listen to music, when I'm frustrated by a guy in my life, the restrictions of moving home, missing my best friends, life in general, or even my cat, I find myself tying up my laces and roaming my "up to ya-ya" legs along the streets of my hometown. When I find myself experiencing the angst of being twenty, the hormones of being woman, or even the traits that make me, me, I strap on my shoes and take to the streets. Running has become a "stressbuster", a way to help me figure out myself, my thoughts, my feelings. Running has become my excercise, my drug of choice...and judging by the way I threw back six Vex Vodka coolers last weekend, I'm glad I've chosen running!
The streets that I run on don't care whether or not the roots of my natural brown hair are stretching through the threads of hi-lited blonde. The streets don't care if my mascara is smudged, my eyeliner isn't perfect (one eye bigger than the other), and the streets certainly don't care if I look good, or if I look bad. The streets don't pay attention to what brand my t-shirt is, or how short my shorts are. The streets don't judge my efforts at life, and the way I behave. The streets don't care if I like them or hate them...they just let me walk and run all over them!
God bless my legs, my socks, my anti-persperint, but most importantly, my running shoes.
“Woman…you got a lot of nerve walking in here, wearing that, looking as good as you do, and making me want you the way I do,” he said. He then felt his body raise, and he leaned forward just enough to kiss her. Those lips felt good. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to stop touching her. She prayed that he wouldn’t.
Like you didn’t enjoy reading that! Can’t fool me!
I was seventeen when I was introduced to Harlequin Romance Novels. I was at the Library in Walkerton rummaging through a bin titled “free”. I found a novel called “The Other Laura”. My first name being Laura, my love of having my name in stuff, and the fact that it was free, all added up to me carrying that novel with me out of the library. I still have it.
I read it in one night. I started as soon as I got home, and I finished it at six in the morning. I remember leaping for the light in my room, as I heard my father’s footsteps on the floor as he awoke to go to work.
After that first novel, I was addicted. I spent a lot of time at eHArlequin.com, and I spent even more time, flipping the pages of these novels. I became a master at rummaging through used book stores, and I was even better at budgeting at how many of these novels I could afford.
I spent two months doing that, and then I had to give up my love of reading about romance for ten months of Grade 11. Time just didn’t allow for my love of reading these novels. So, me and Harlequin “took a break” from one another.
I grew out of my enjoyment for these novels. I replaced them with Cosmopolitain, Glamour, The Hamilton Spectator, and good books. I put my romance novels in a box and I put that box in the far corner of the basement labelled “Keep Out”. “The Other Laura” remained on my bookshelf.
I’m 20 years old now. As I mentioned before in other blogs, I’m having a hard time adjusting to being at home. I miss my life that I had in Hamilton. I miss my friends, I miss my roommate, and I miss all the fun I was having, and even the classes I went to.
In order to save my sanity, and stop the tears from strolling down my cheeks, I did what I tend to do: I made myself a steamy, hot, bubble bath. Lavender, vanilla, and a romance novel saved me from going bonkers one night.
I felt a certain rush (not that kind) when I flipped open “The Other Laura”. It was like seeing an old friend again, after too long of being separated. I skim-read that book in a three hour long bath. I was shrivelled up like a prune by the time I decided that I really should get out. My skin, very sensitive actually, wasn’t reacting well to the Lavender bubble bath that I found, and the pasta and pasta sauce in the kitchen was calling my name, and so was my brother in hopes that I would make it. But alas, I lied there, completely and utterly thrilled to have read such a fantasy. Wouldn’t it be great if I found a love like that (BARF!).
I mentioned my little “sanity savour” to my incredibly down-to-earth friends. I’m an idiot.
My friend Caylz, had something good to say. “It’s porn!” she said, in a set-me-straight kind of attitude, as she pondered how her friend could spend so much time in a bubble bath.
Claire indulged in coming up with her own scenario as to what they sound like. She read off words of romance, in a teasing manner, while Caylz concluded the story with “and then he stuck his head in her bosom!”
They killed it for me. They know it. I love them anyway. We had a good laugh about my little “night of fun in the tub”, and I think that when I get together with my ladies for Martinis, they’ll still somehow work into the conversation about how “I get off on my porn”, as Caylz has said to me.
This was the first romance novel I have read in a long-time. That novel was great, but unfortunately, my world of dating has actually happened to ruin the reality in these novels.
I’ve gone from “The Other Laura” to “He’s Just No That Into You: The No Excuse Guide to Understanding Guys”.
Oh the irony…
I still love my romance novels, but the realities of the dating world have completely ruined the “actuality” of them…along with Caylz, who now always asks about my “porn”. I’ve learned that “love” just doesn’t happen like that.
You don’t run into “The Other Laura”, in fact it’s more like “He’s Just Not That Into You”.
I’ve heard about love in the songs that play from my CDs. I’ve seen it in friends’ eyes. I’ve heard about it from people on television. I’ve seen it in the eyes of two people at weddings, I’ve even looked it up on the internet. My “Party Favourites of the 60s” CD said that “if I want to know if he loves me so, it’s in his kiss.” Well, I’ve been kissin’ and so far, I’ve only been missin’.
I don’t know much about love, but it’s my understanding that it’s an uncanny understanding of another person. It’s a kind of caring that you just can’t hurt, and it’s a kind of trust that bubbles over any circumstance of hurt. It drives your hormones crazy, and it’s about “not being able to keep your hands off someone”. It’s about the little things, like when he shows up to fix your tire on the side of the road, so you don’t have to pay for the tow call. It’s about a kind of attention that never leaves when you have something to say. It’s about burnt dinners, but still asking for seconds. Love has no lies. It’s about being together, without saying a word, and not wanting to go anywhere. It’s about feeling better, attractive, smarter, intelligent, confident, and overall just plain great, when that person is in your company. I want the most comfortable love that I can find, with lots of laughter, the little annoyances that make funny stories at dinner parties, and a true partner, but I’m not in a hurry.
There is a whole world out there just waiting for this strong, independent woman to bust into. I want the independent, early 20s life that I’ve been looking forward to so much. I believe people when they say, don’t rush, don’t hurry. I believe people when they say, that if I don’t find ALL of myself, before I find “the one”, I’ll regret it.
My mother just asks one thing of me when I bring home “the one“. She says, “Nemo is out there, but for the love of God, don’t kill your father by bringing home a jackass”.
My dear Caylz just asks one thing of me as well. That whenever a new man comes into the picture, we’ll have good laughs over my tales of first dates (the farmer), hairdo’s that are bad (my womanly power of being able to change them!), tales of making out (poke! Hello there!), and tales of when it all goes bad (cheers to the loss of my 200 pound tumour!). She’ll say something like “you’re gonna’ find a guy that loves everything about you”, and I’ll say “thanks”. Then we’ll sip out martinis and check-out the cutie at the bar!
