Page 16 of Pick-Up
“Is it early this year?”
“Not especially.”
“Why are we talking about it two months in advance? I’m still recovering from Yom Kippur.”
“Just planning ahead.”
“Let’s talk about this later too.”
I both appreciate my parents’ help so much and feel a bit nauseous with self-loathing for having to request it so often. Of courseI will work around their schedule and the insanity—but why does everything feel like an uphill battle?
“Suit yourself.” My mother shrugs. “See you Thursday!”
I hang up, sigh and take a single step toward the park for my run when my phone rings out again. It reads “MOM.” For the love of all things holy.
“Hi?”
“Me again!” my mom says.
“I see that. Want to plan Passover? It’s only six months away.”
She ignores me.
“I just wanted to tell you that we can’t come on Thursday until three p.m.”
“Right,” I say. “You mentioned that before.” My stomach sinks. Does she not remember?
“I did?” She frowns. “Huh. Well, now I’ve said it twice.”
I nod. “Consider it computed.”
“Okay, sweetie.”
“Oh, and Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I wait for a beat after she hangs up. I will not frighten that collie again.
But the phone doesn’t ring. For the moment, it seems, we are good. Though, if I’m honest, the conversation left me feeling anything but, unease prickling below the surface.Is something up with my mom?It’s not like her to be so forgetful.
Sighing, I head to the park to blow off steam.
I run. But I am not a runner. That’s an important distinction in a neighborhood that attracts this earnest and committed a running crowd. I have never attempted a 5K, a half marathon or a marathon. I do not carry energy chews or own a holster for my iPhone. I havenever consulted an expert about my gait. And, while I do use an app to track my mileage, it’s only so I know when I can be done. At exactly three miles. No matter what.
The truth is, I don’t like running. But Ilovestopping. The feeling of finishing and basking in the rest of a podcast or power ballad while I stroll out of the park like a champ is transcendent. Like everyone else, I have endured boring-ass lectures on the importance of exercise my whole life—by school health teachers, doctors at annual checkups, fitness articles in waiting-room magazines. But I never actually absorbed any of that endorphin mumbo jumbo until after my divorce, confronted with the vision of a future spent as a blob on my couch.
Each morning, I would blink my eyes open to another day of solo parenting without reprieve, no matter how great my kids, of feeling sad and like a failure. Of worrying about a dearth of money and time. Of feeling lonely—though never as lonely as when Cliff was still pretending to participate. Nothing like someone ignoring you in the same room to make you feel like an island. I’ve realized I prefer to be ignored from three thousand miles away.
Jogging helped.
So, now, I run my way through bits of native forest onto the main path, finding my rhythm as I get warm. I often switch up my route, but, on tired days or when I don’t feel like pushing that hard, I go against the current, jogging the opposite direction of most other runners to avoid the giant uphill swing on the opposite side of the loop. This is one of those days.
Today, the park is alive with people—runners, bikers, preschool teachers guiding groups of tiny humans in matching T-shirts, gripping a shared rope or a partner’s hand. Set free, kids toss leaves in the air. No surprise. The weather is spectacular. There’s a hint of crispness, like biting into an apple, but it’s on the tail of warm, enveloping sunlight. I love this gift of early fall, when the foliage is only beginning to make an appearance, transmuting into pinks, oranges and yellows.
