I am not distracted by the painful people whose sole purpose in life seems to be to lap you and I do not have the urge to box them soundly on their ears.
I am not counting the minutes to when I will complete the time that I have set for myself and can finally breathe normally. Or even breathe again.
I am not even looking at my watch my ten seconds and thinking - shit, only ten seconds have passed?
I am not thinking of the cramps, real and imagined in my legs. Knees. Back of knees. Elbows. The soft part of the ears.
What has happened?
Have I become like those women in Nike ads where there is a karmic connection between the road and you? Thud, thud, thud.
Have I finally discovered the love for running, where all that matters is the act of connecting that shoe with that road, just one more time?
Have I become lighter, in person and on my feet and can therefore carry my own weight more effortlessly?
Or is there a simpler, much simpler explanation?
That I have rediscovered my love for this man and I am picturing him (yes, in those jeans, sigh) as he sings 'Brilliant Disguise' in my ear?
I think my quest for the perfect running list is finally over, my friends. The Boss runs with me.
And now Holi has to come and bring with it another wave of nostalgia. Seriously, I think the older I get, the more I crave for things of the past. Someone stop me before I shift bag and baggage to Dilli for the chaat or Mathura for the pedas or Banaras for the kalakand (full marks to anyone who can tell me which film I am quoting from). Strange how it's always about the food though.
Holi. It brought with it the promise of a summer of loos (as in the winds, not the toilets) that ripen the kharboojas and the mangoes. It meant a feast - dahi-bada, aloo-tikki, namakpare and gujhiya, even thinking about them is enough to make you gain five kilos. It meant colour - either accepting it or avoiding it, depending on which side of the terrible teens you were at. It also meant bhang that your well-meaning mother put in the thandai and the rave party that went in your head for hours afterwards with just two glasses of the good stuff (and i mean it, it was really good). It meant exams the thought of which buzzed around you like an irritating mosquito and which you tried to swat away repeatedly. It sometimes meant my birthday too, which I was never entirely sure I liked, not wanting to share my special day with any festival, triumph of good over evil notwithstanding.
And now, all it means is a day off in the middle of the week. And for some, not even that.
Pictures courtesy this website.