Sunday, September 11, 2011

The perfect imperfect boyfriend

Ok, so this is my return to blogging after a long hiatus. I really did mean to blog after the Ottawa Marathon, and then again after the Bar exam, and well, there is not a good excuse. Yes, I have been pretty busy, and those of you who know me well know that I basically live out my car right now, so I will rely on the excuse of pure exhaustion. Perhaps exhaustion and the total upheaval of moving down here, paired with not having things go quite as expected on all fronts… Right, Lanni Lesson – things never turn out as expected.
Anyways, since my marathon debut and writing the Bar, I have started working full time at Davis & Hoss, and kicked up my training again for the Chicago Marathon in October… eek… The 4:30am wake up to drive into town for my interval workouts and long runs was pretty painful to start, but I think I am slowly adjusting.
This morning I set out on top of Signal Mountain for another long long run, and by mile 15 parts of my body started to remind me that it was not the biggest fan of today’s activities. This kinda got my mind wandering, and I questioned “what keeps bringing me back to running”? After all of the hurt, the frustrations, the questioning of whether I should start dating rollerblading, I keep coming back for more. Am I a masochist? Do I like playing the victim? NO! I have come to the conclusion that my relationship with running is not at all like casual dating… running and I are in a very committed long term relationship.
Many of you have heard me previously refer to running as my boyfriend (http://www.ottawasun.com/2011/05/29/marchant-off-and-running ), and like any relationship, it has had some ups and downs. There have been times where I am so frustrated with running that I feel like hot venom is running through my veins. I have cussed running out. I have told running to hit the road and never come back. But, he never really takes my anger and frustration to heart. He knows that deep down I really do love running, that I have put my heart and soul into making things work between us, and most importantly, he understands me.  Yes… there is definitely love in our relationship… and it works both ways.
Running does not judge me or my family for how we grew up, and he does not question my morals or values. He has never turned his nose up at me (hmm… maybe when I forget to air out my shoes).
Running did not give me silent treatment because I allowed myself to get angry with the World for a day. Instead, running sat back and let me vent. I got out all my frustrations without being questioned on them or being told that my feelings were invalid. After a good venting, running was still there, asking if I was up for another 8 mile date the next day. Running will not stand by and let me just sit there and lick my wounds either.
Running lets me burp.
Running has never disappeared on me or ignored me after I have called him out for hurting my feelings. He never forgets me or overbooks his schedule. Yes, we sometimes need our space from each other… but I never have to go hunting him down, and I am not always the first to extend an olive branch after we have a fight.
Running like most boys, does not always get it. We have our differences... I admit that I have my days where I am just a pill to deal with. And man, do I give running huge props for putting up with me during those “off” days.
Running has never given up on me. He accepts my apologies when I make a mistake and get frustrated over something small. By no means is running my “biotch”; He barks back at me when necessary. But never any hits below the belt. I pull my own weight in our relationship. I listen to running when he tells me that he’s frustrated or mad at me. I let him vent (aka, take out his frustration on my shins, my pelvis, and my hip) and then come back and see if he still wants to chill later.
 Running understands that I have a mad crush on dancing.
Do not get me wrong. Running is not always the perfect boyfriend. But none of us are perfect. And I’ll be damned… running accepts that. I pity the fool who doesn’t.

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