This is what I chant to myself every morning for the last I don’t know how many days. I stay up too late, granted, but I’ve always done that. Lately, I just cannot muster the courage to face my equally tired business wardrobe. Heels and stockings, I loathe you.
The other morning I woke up about 32 minutes before I should have been sitting behind my desk with a cup of coffee and a bushy-tailed, worky-pooh glint in my eye. I was feeling sluggish from the half-pound of black licorice I had consumed too late the night before, and I knew running to work would be the only way to save my morning.
I put on my running clothes and threw a work dress and heels into my running pack (also black beads for good measure, and don’t forget your bra like last time, dear). I inserted ear buds and was off for my 8.5 km trek to the suburban business park.
The sun was peaking behind a tumultuous cloud, and living in Holland where you can count on the rain if anything, I knew something wet was at hand.
10 minutes later, it was pouring down. I think it was waiting for little old me, Rihanna’s What Now and the music-video scene I was about to create for the passing tram filled with commuters (including an executive from down the hall): I was fine, just breathing hard, but then I was heaving hard. The tears that sprang forth mixed with the rain, which would have masked my little tantrum had I not been ugly crying. I crouched down in the middle of the square I was crossing and let out days’ worth of pinned up something-or-another.
This lasted for two minutes max, and then I got up and wiped the tears symbolically away. The rain showed no sign of letting up, and I had 2k to go.
I nearly sprinted the remainder, speed-showered and plunked down at my desk, out of breath and with a bushy-tailed glint in my eye. A colleague told me I looked refreshed, and I ended up having a pretty damn productive day.
Now THAT’S what a good cry and a morning run will do.