Cross country ends this week.
To my friends, this is a momentous occasion. They will throw their running shoes, covered with rainwater and mud and vomit, into the air as they would graduation caps. Last year I did the same.
I suppose there’s a part of me that still wants to throw my sweat-encrusted headbands to the wind and forget any evidence the cross country season did, in fact, exist. When I rediscover the meaning of “free time,” I may look back and think of everything I do not miss.
I will sit on my couch without an ounce of soreness in my legs and feel free. My homework will seem to do itself, my head will be on my pillow for eight hours (maybe), and my non-cross-country friends will begin to suspect I haven’t completely forgotten them.
But I know within the week I will feel listless and bored. I will feel weak even though I’ve kept running on my own. I will walk up the stairs without pain, and I will continuously be reminded I should I be running right now.
I miss it already.