"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." - Nelson Mandela
Oh how easy it was, in one little week, to turn to mush. Not the good kind of mush, where you see someone across a crowded room, feel butterflies in your stomach and your legs go weak, causing you to knock over the table where someone put the really good appetizers, like bacon wrapped scallops and chili cheese dip, the kind of cheese dip that makes you not only want to dip your tortilla
[that's what she said] but also the majority of your fingers so that you can stuff your entire hand in your mouth and devour every last glistening drop of spicy, orange heaven while people watch in horror and comment in disgust because, subconsciously, they want your hand in their mouth too. We've all had it happen, I don't need to explain.
No, I'm talking about the
"7 Days To A Badonk-A-Donk Butt" kind of mush, where you're so f-ing lazy you ask someone else to bring you the bowl of chili cheese dip while you're lying on the couch in front of the
Supernanny marathon because you're so boo hoo, wah wah fatigued from all that unnecessary mileage after your half-marathon and you think you deserve some kind of friggin medal for such bravery. Remember? You've been there. Big wuss.
Today was training day. I didn't wanna. Well I thought I didn't wanna. Then I had to. Had to put my gym appropriate clothes on. There is no pornography in this story. Stop looking for it. This is the smell part.
I opened my bag, pulled out my gym appropriate clothing and...wooosh! It hit me. It was physically subtle, yet mentally overpowering. You know that smell, like someone took an old running shoe and rolled it inside a cement mixer filled with used jock straps from the
1992 U.S. Olympic Basketball Dream Team. That's right, a hint of Magic Johnson, a smattering of Karl Malone, all inside my bag.
It was the smell of a year to 18 months of training, running, good old American leftover sweat, hitting my olfactory bulb like a hot knife through brain matter. It all came back to me. The motivation, inspiration, happiness, anger, true love turning to heartbreak, cold morning runs in the dark, dark evening runs in the cold, egg sandwiches, butt cheek therapy and
Move Along by The All-American Rejects gushing out of some mysterious place within my skull to remind me of what I had forgotten and push my lame ass back to
The Church Of Callie.
Last week was the old me. But I am a new me. And I like the new me. Smelly gym bag and all.
Sorry, not really Earth-shattering, but they can't all be about orgasms....
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