I used to find sweating so gross. It was the dark stain under the pits of old men while they played boules in sun hot enough to drop a cow. To a teenager that's right up there with pus and puke. Perhaps in my so called maturity I've become obsessed, part of being an insecure person I guess, but I can't go three days now without running until I am sweatier than all of those grandpa's put together. When my hair is saturated and the salty drops run into my mouth it's a kiss of life. It's the reassurance that I can still run, still enjoy the body God gave me for years to come. I check for the grey hairs sometimes, none yet, but even if they sprouted faster than spring weeds I'm not ready to buy my boules set just yet.
Tammy made the turn for her thirtieth lane. In the water she had no worries, no homework, no boyfriend, no nagging Mom or irritating brother - it was just her and the cool water. She moved with robotic precision but organic fluidity, stroke after stroke nailed to perfection. After years in swim club she wasn't going to compete anymore, but the pool was her therapist. Eighty laps and she was stress free and ready for a day in the office.
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