I woke over-carbed, sluggish and staring a "12 bottles of water before 7PM" goal in the eye. Everything from my arches to my shoulders felt tight with the sort of anticipation a kid gets the night before her first day of school with her clothes laid out, backpack organized and a turkey sandwich already waiting in the fridge. All of the work, completed; choices made; leaps taken; and this moment, a nod to "waiting."
While sleep had been easy to come by this week, the 9 hours a day had my internal whatever completely screwed up. Suddenly, the happy non-dreamer was replaced with a stranger with an ability to retain ridiculous pieces of dreams throughout the night. How disturbing to sleep plagued by ghostly images of lost dogs and teeth falling out; frogs on doorsteps and the smell of homemade ravioli filling my childhood home at the shore.
Up and moving, my typical Saturday morning walk with my loyal noodle (Cairne Terrier/Poodle mix) was less so and more filled with wandering and water and the eventual stop outside our favorite coffee shop. This became the scene of my final run at carbs and the first truly guilt-free everything bagel I've had since I was 16 years old, 5'9 and 112 pounds. As our walk continued through the Italian Market, past families just starting their days with double strollers out to greet the beautiful morning, we found ourselves caffeinated, more focused and three waters deep.
Chores at home began, as if any other Saturday was upon me, with malfunctioning washers, planting trees, cleaning, vacuuming and addressing those final Christmas Cards. With the marathon outfit finalized, the major decisions made: no water belt, shorts, four gels and water intake cut off at 7PM, it was time to take my utterly tweaked self to the spa.
Hot tea in hand and visions of the 4:30AM wake-up looming, I set out for my favorite Rittenhouse Spa down quiet, tree-lined Locus Street, through the Park full of couples strolling arm in arm, and out on to the other side. It was here, in this spa, filled with its beautiful scents, low lights and heated tables and towels, that I had a flashback so tangible that for a moment time was but a concept and space wholly irrelevant.
Set against the steady whale-like sounds coming from the speakers just overhead, my mind set itself on the dimly lit corner of the Rothman Institute where I went each morning in the dark, sat on a table and had my right knee wrapped in a giant heated towel while I sipped my coffee and watched the news. It was as if the little blonde Rothman girl snuck into the spa and was standing before me perplexed about where to put the heated pad.
Suddenly the spa faded and the only thing I felt was the solitude of physical therapy and the lows I reached starting over there. Tears in my eyes, I came out of this flash, mid-chemical peel, with a feeling of such overwhelming gratitude for my health that I knew I was ready to go home, eat pumpkin risotto and do something huge the following morning.
The walk home was cold without the bitter. Rather, it was the safely-wrapped-in-your-favorite-hoodie kind of cold full of deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and the resolution of a year.
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