Waiting for Consent

On the body, loss, and running

Hello Readers!

Michael and I wrangled Jack into the back of my car on Saturday and went for a fall hike at our favorite state park. On said hike, I inexplicably found myself suggesting we should go camping while the leaves are at their peak. I was momentarily romanced by the scent of wood burning and hot dogs on the grill after we passed a family picnicking in the woods. They strung sweatshirts on thin rope—their sleeves flickering in the breeze—and bedecked their picnic table with a red and check cloth. I was a goner when that cheerful red check caught my eye again an hour later from a different vantage point in the woods. Every day since my camping suggestion, this man has found a reason to purchase a new piece of camping equipment. At this point, going to a spa would be cheaper and possibly better suited to my temperament.

After our hike, we dropped a droopy Jack off at home and visited our local running store. We both needed a new pair of running shoes, Michael because he hasn’t replaced his in years, and me because my podiatrist (fact: I am of an age when I need a podiatrist) told me I needed a new pair for better support. Far be it from me to argue with a doctor about buying new shoes. I was slightly dubious about the suggestion because my casual, short runs have been few and far between over the past few years.

We entered the store, and the colorful rows of energy chews and gels shouted hello from their shelving. “Have you missed me?” they seemed to say, and all I could think was that I most definitely missed something, but that something was me. I’ve stuffed so many small packets of energy gels into my running belt over the years, I could immediately taste the thick chocolate goo in the back of my throat. My eyes swept over the shop and memories of long training runs, injury prevention gear, and countless shoe fittings swept me into a past that I long for with every part of me.