Running yesterday, I recognized once again, I sweat an abnormal amount. I knew I would come home, take a photo of my sweaty self and write about how my sweat is a symbol for being alive, and my perspiration is a key to the difficulty of my journey. I made it six miles, after all, and the alternative would be that I never hit the roads. Upon investigating the photo, I noticed, too, there was blood on my shirt. It happened again!
Scarlet stains occur whenever I wear this particular t-shirt, like it first happened during one of the Mini-Marathons; I finished the race and noticed I had two stains upon my chest. It was then other runners taught me the importance of wearing bandaids during long runs (which I've never done because it seems plain odd).
Chafing occurs and I'm not ashamed of my odd-liquid self, nor the fact that, at times, I have bleeding nipples. In my quest to find more smiles in life, I recognize that mortal truth is meant for further laughs. The human body is drastically whacky and we're conditioned, at a young age, to hide all the vulgar parts of it. Give me Grannie Annie and dinner of baked beans any day and let the frogs sing. Shaming our biological eccentricities is denying our truth. This photo is my reality.
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