Running

I have not really seen the almost crazy connection between accompanying my father to the farm up the mountain when I was a kid to buying a pair or running shoes. Not until now.
Silly as you might think, but yes, I should have refused the Saturday hikes up to the farm, then. I would not have to lose precious money over a pair of shoes!
It is too late for that now.
It starts with how, when I was a kid, I loathed Saturdays. I would wish every day was Monday, not minding the walk to and from school (it takes 1 hour to walk from house to school). Mondays meant the start of a five-day non-negotiably school time, which could not be taken away from me.
Weekends, however, are associated with the unforgiving heat of the sun and the heavy 4 liters of water that I have to carry with me all the way to my father's farm. It is on a mountain, steep enough for me to think of faking a fall, so we could take another break, a longer one, on the way there.
Let us just say that in spite of the fact that the farm is everything serene you can imagine, it was one of those that I prayed would disappear from the face of the earth. It symbolized unfairness in that other kids were allowed to play, or watch TV, or just do nothing on weekends, while I was expected to be hiking under the scorching heat to learn how to plant coconuts, clear the land of unwanted weeds or to make copras.
On several occasions, however, when my father's mood was so good that even if I would repeatedly and annoyingly convince him of how we don't need water, he wouldn't mind, I would ask for a 15-min break under the shade of my favorite mango tree on the way to the farm. Even that happened very seldom.
Those hikes made me swear to myself I would do very well in school. When I graduate, I would just be in my office not minding what the weather outside is...

Twenty years later, I fulfilled that promise. I am nowhere near being a farmer. I am not going to be forced to hike up a mountain on weekends carrying four liters of water with me. Now, I sit at my desk in front of my laptop. I don't just not know what the weather is, but in most cases, I forget that it is a laptop I am having a conversation with. I spend hours and hours typing what solutions I could give, plans that need execution, excel reports, powerpoint presentations- basically running my departments.
For five years now, my weeks are all about Mondays. It is difficult to notice the other days of the week when I do pretty much the same thing every day. And the weekend? I can vaguely remember. I spend most of them in bed and making sure my place is dust-free for the next week.

They say the tragedy of human existence is when every day is the same as any other. I thought that if I do not do anything right now, I might as well be Sophocles, and write down my life for the greatest tragedy of all time. But I am not the kind that does something suicidally stupid by just dropping everything at the moment and head for the beach to go surf and not care about tomorrow. I could take baby steps. I thought about cooking. I could start with dinner.
Three attempts, however, and I know I was not born to cook. There was some improvement, but not the kind that could make me invite friends over. The pasta I made last weekend was almost edible, though. Culinary is not what I should get into if I want to feel good about myself. That is sure.

I decided to go running.
I would schedule this at least 3 times a week. On Monday mornings just before I go to work, Thursday mornings, and weekends. I thought this would be perfect. Eventually, I would also join fun runs or marathons that allow 70-year-olds to join as long as they pay the registration fee (which is a stupid idea by the way). I was going to start this two weeks ago, except that I remembered I do not have a pair of running shoes. And it has been two weeks that I am deciding among the many pairs out there. Should I get the expensive one? The cheap one? Which model? Which color? Which brand? I have been to the mall several times, and I still have not gotten a pair.

Now, I am thinking of picking up where I left off with my cooking escapades. At least there, I eat what I buy. I would like to believe that I am slowly getting convinced that to be great in something, I just have to be a little patient. Even beyond patient with this one.
But it's that farm that's to blame for all this. Had those weekends been spent on swimming at the river or playing marbles with friends, I would probably not have to be stuck in a job that makes me realize I am not good at cooking, forcing me to go running instead, which is giving me headaches about what pair of shoes to get.