Frequent doctor’s visits call for comfort food. For me, that means lentil soup and falafel at Open Sesame in the East Village. I also love the lanterns.
I slipped on my Des Moines Half Marathon pullover, the one made from that fancy ever-dry fabric, rather than the “Newton Superfan” cotton T-shirt I often wear, long faded from Cardinal red to a confused pink color. I laced up my new running shoes, their neon colors still blinding from the box. Then I ran and ran and ran, probably too fast, probably too far at this stage in my training; I got a little power hungry.
The pace, the distance, the, “I’m a serious runner,” outfit — if I embodied power, embodied strength, it would somehow emerge. I was so close. Continue reading
