I know. That last sentence doesn't even make sense. Sigh.
Here's the only way I know how to explain it, and I can't even take credit for this analogy, my dear sister and my dear, dear husband both brought this running parable into the mix. Surely, I can't be responsible for a running metaphor. I despise running. Nevertheless, this is the best way to explain it:
The long haul.
That ancient race of champions that, quite honestly, baffles me. That is what this last year has been like. I started off confident. Going along at a smooth pace, sure I could finish the race, even not knowing where the finish line was. I have had moments when I have had to change my pace, slow down and walk. Moments when I graciously... er, not so graciously, took a pause to purge the poison working its way out of my system, my vomit of biting tears and angry, bitter words projecting onto the pavement, splashing up and staining my shoes. I've had moments of second winds and straight ways that provided slight reprieve and boosts to my energy and little more life to my stamina. And I've had countless supporters cheering me on, standing on the sidelines, offering sustenance and aide, handing me life-giving water, energy-boosting gel, the occasional towel to mop my brow with and thousands of words of encouragement. Willing me to finish, and to finish well.
|I wish this was me. I wish I was this energetically, enthusiastically exuberatant about my race coming to an end.|
|Physists are geniuses.|
|This is a startlingly accurate depiction of me. On the very verge of collapse.|
But alas, I will make it to the end. I will endure. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.
And when my husband steps off that plane-at some relatively soon future time still to be determined-I will release my last store of energy in a final burst of speed, racing straight into his arms. Then, I will promptly collapse.