Sports and I have always had a shaky relationship. It's sort of like one of those graphs in geometry, where when one end of a line gets longer, the other end will get longer as well. My feelings regarding sports are like that. I grow to love them more and more the older I get, and I also realized that I can hate them with a fantastic vehemence, and that this is directly relative to whether I'm a good sport or not. I like to think that this mystic love-hatred is my secret superpower.
My younger sister plays basketball and volleyball. I usually go to her games with my mom, because we're really good at making fun of people together, and also she sometimes has enough money for a Gatorade. Most of the gyms my sister's team plays at are very small in terms of seating. Sometimes, it's just one long row of chairs against one wall for spectators, so there is no manner of censorship, for the sake of good sportmanship, between the two opposing teams' parents and friends.
Under these circumstances, things can get violent.
In this case I guess that spectating can be considered a sport, becuase there are times when it feels like the Hunger Games.
I am an artiste, not an athlete, but I do run for exercise and healths and stuff. Every day, it's like a jazz fusion of emotions. I will illustrate my point using the basic foundations of...dubstep*.
*Note to superathletic people: I am not superathletic, so don't get on my case for not running however much you superathletic people do. Thanks.
1. The Intro
Before I begin, here's an idea of what my running route generally looks like:
It's wildly out of proportion, but all you really need to know is that there's a hill, a straight stretch of flat road, a right turn, and then another flat stretch that goes to a stop sign. I usually start from my house, go uphill, back down to the stop sign, and back to my house. There's a whole mystical mental preparation I go through prior to each run. It begins with a small, nagging, haunting voice way back in my brain.
So I begin to peruse the house on autopilot, putting on my running gear and grabbing my pepper spray with basically nothing in my brain. Eventually, I get outside, but every step I take between deciding to run and opening the front door is in slow motion, mostly because my body really likes to be not running. I set the timer and head up the hill.
2. Now Let's Add Some Synth
As the hill gradually inclines, I start feeling really great about myself. I live in a gorgeous neighborhood, and for a time the mountains on one side of me and a huge valley on the other are distracting enough to keep me from realizing that I'm a weak person, and I feel a little bit like a pegasus unicorn frolicking amongst rainbows.
3. Drop The Bass
About three quarters of the way up the hill, the treeline on my left stops, and suddenly mine eyes are saturated with blazing sunlight.
I wear glasses as well, so the light catches in every flaw in the lenses and reflects directly into my eyeballs.
I keep going, and reach the part of the hill where, in addition to the evil sun, I always run into a wicked upwind.
The third head in this triumvirate of awesome things that happen every time I run is the demon-dog that resides at the top of the hill. By the time I reach the top, I'm not really feeling the frolicking unicorn pegasus thing anymore.
4. Interlude
Once I start heading home, everything is fine for a time. I find a happy place and camp out.
5. Second Bass Drop (Optional)
Two hours later, depending on whether I haven't been running recently, sometimes my body has a little revolution and decides not to have legs anymore. That's okay, I guess. The point is that I got some exercise.
