Have you ever seen a person with a wedgie? Not your garden variety undies bunch, I'm talking about the kind that could be pulled out of the back of the poor sucker's throat. Yesterday, at my gym, for a stout hour, I watched a man run on the treadmill with the largest wedgie, ever. The kind that makes you check your own sweet cheeks. Phantom wedgie pangs are no joke, ma'am. I couldn't help but wonder why he could let something as intrusive as bunched boxers continue to fester.
On the way home, I surmised I needn't stare at stranger's posterior. The jury is still out. The second thought was, maybe the good man was trying not to trip, wipeout, faceplant, die, and simply remember how not to smear his face on the serpentine belt of a Nordic Trac. A lofty goal, well worth running towards. He did better than me, any day of the week. I don't run. Running is not something I do. I was built for comfort, not speed. When puberty hit, the boys in 6th grade did not call me "toes." I'm a cuddler. I love to snuggle. There will be no running. If someone wants to catch me, they will. There was one instance when I lived in Indianapolis, I actually ran for my own dear life. I outran a nutjob in shorty shorts, top knot, no bra, and a Goodwill sweatshirt. The rest of the dirty details, I'll spare you. Your retinas can remain intact. Suffice it to say, the Good Lord was on my side.
Perhaps the wedgie is symbolic of an underlying thought I've wrestled with for a good year. When the whole world crashes down around you, everything can't be saved, you have to learn to live the uncomfortable and intrusive facets of life. Since my parent's house fire, I've been "running" with a litany of "wedgies". Learning how to live again, when all I've wanted to do since the death of my father is lie down beside him in the dirt, has proven itself to be a formidable opponent. Just sprinkle some dirt on my head at old 6 Mile Cemetery. Let me see sweet Jesus. Let me go with my dad, please?
I believe we all have seasons of wedgie treadmill running. A time when we give it all we've got. tongue out, dogs barking, britches in a wad, dying for a drink, sweat pouring out, all of the gut-wrenching stuff. At times we are going for all we are worth. It means trying not to face plant in front of creation. The pain reminds us we have been in the darkness before. Even if it passes like a Kidney stone, it still shall pass. We are better for the lesson. More tender despite the ache of our heart.
Aside from the devastating loss of my father, my weight loss has been the most uncomfortable facet for me to tackle. I would only go the gym and wear an old t-shirt with all of my makeup done and not talk. Sidenote, I am not at the gym for friends. K? Thanks. I'm not here to socialize. I'll smile, I'll nod after my heart snaps back into Sinus rhythm. I don't care what protein powder you use. I won't even photobomb your selfies. Yesterday, I noticed a seismic shift in my own struggle. There I was on some machine to bust my muffin-top in shorts, rebar lined sports bra and a tank top. If the truth gets told, I may or may not have belted out a few bars of the Spice Girls in between reps. Say it loud, say it proud!
I can't tell you how much this past year has hurt. No words to articulate the sorrow that has befallen me. By the same hand, it's been a lesson I know by heart now, it all will work out for my good. I can not tell of my sorrow without telling about the all of the unexpected ways I have also found soul-anchoring joy. I pray for my brothers and sisters walking their own road. Trying to let go of broken dreams, empty promises, or the aftermath of loss. Struggle well. Give it to Jesus. Go to the gym. Storm heaven gates for the wisdom to know when to go tongue out, wedgie in. Ask for guidance when it's time to shake the dust. If you see me at the gym, feel free not to say hi. I'm cheering for you. I am on your side. Won't even mention your wedgie I would love for you to pick.
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