Resplendency

My past weekend could only be described in one world which would perfectly accentuate the past 60 hours or so: disaster.

But don't stop reading; I promise that there is a reason behind my complaints and me telling you why my weekend was so abominable.  A good reason, in fact.

So where do I begin? I guess I shall do so in chronological order:

Friday night is the night before my second race of my cross country season. Those that know me well are highly aware of the fact that I take it as seriously as can be, and that running is my life. It's given me more pleasure than I can imagine, and has shaped (for better or for worse) into who I am today. Because of this, I slept minimally the night before. And minimal sleep for a runner (or anybody, really) makes you cranky, especially before an important day.

The aforesaid race went just awful for me. My arch nemesis, the heat, of who we share a brutal enmity, got the better of me and led for my race and time to not be what I worked for. I beat my personal best time by 19 seconds, but did not succeed in reaching my goal for that race when I put in the required effort my goal. Thus, a major letdown on my part, especially because I have been working as hard as ever, running more than ever, and the result was not what I intended it to be. When you put so much energy into one specific thing, and you fail at your goal, it's quite disheartening.

So, I come back from Fairfield University dejected, exhausted, and legs full of lactic acid.  Atleast, I think to myself, I can look forward to a Saturday night with my teammates and housemates, which never ceases to cheer me up.

Yet, it didn't. Painful nostalgia appeared, instead.

We all have it. There is no denying it. Some arbitrary spoken word from somebody sparks a memory of something, or someone, that is no longer there. And, likely, you miss them. You miss the old version of them (or in my case, her).  You miss the person you fell for so much that it's physically exhausting, and the thought of reality makes you feel sick to your stomach.  You hope, pray, that she feels the same way. And it's selfish that you plead that she thinks about you, but you can't help it. But you also hope she's fantastic because you want nothing but the best for her, because she deserves so much. She deserves it all. And, yes, you miss the good, the bad, the everything. You miss it so much, and it tears you apart from the whole you're trying to regain. It's a sickening Sisyphean cycle that you go through constantly, with seemingly no end, no matter how hard to try to move forward.

Sunday morning rolls around, still feeling discouraged by it all, and I have to run 20 miles. Typically, this is not such a big deal for me (as I am training for my fourth marathon in November), but my mind was just not with it that morning. All I yearned for was to lay in bed and sleep off my recent struggles. Instead, I ran for 2 hours and 15 minutes, wishing that every moment I was sleeping. Nevertheless, I did finish the run, and had even more lactic acid in my legs that forced me to waddle like a duck when I had to walk due to extreme soreness

When I return from my run, my cell phone kicks the bucket. So how do I celebrate its untimely demise? By waiting at the Verizon Store for three hours to buy a phone I'm not used to, do not like, and charges me $ 9.99 a month for the Internet when I didn't need it in the first place. They say it's mandatory. I say it's asinine.

That evening, while preparing for my radio show (which YOU can listen to at icecast.marist.edu on Sundays from 8-10 p.m.!), my computer freezes right when I'm about to save and even finish the outline, thereby leaving my partner and I bitterly unprepared.  As always, "the show must go on" and we did our best, at least salvaging a semi-entertaining two hours on college radio...if that's even possible.

Now, why do I mention all of this?

Listen, I promise it's not to just complain, to have you sympathize for me, so I can say, "Oh, woe is me, I had a terrible few days! My life sucks!"

No.

That's not it at all. Because this entire tumultuous weekend has taught me that it could have been just as likely that I had the best weekend of my life than the worst one. What I realize (and I hope others do, too) is that we have these resplendent memories of awful times, like these. There's no denying our loathing of these moments. But what about the good times? Don't those cherished memories and moments have an even more resplendent recalling in your mind? A foiling example for each awful moment of my weekend:

My first cross country race of the season was a moment to remember, as I beat my recent personal best time by 90 seconds for the 5K and outkicked three other runners in the last 100 meters. That's something to be proud of. That's a special memory, as is when I ran my third (and most recent) marathon under three hours. These are resplendent memories.

The reminders I have of you, who I miss, are to be cherished forever. Those moments of my life with that person are indispensable, and of which I will never forget. Some of the best times of my life to date were spent with that special someone. And for that, I will always be grateful and remember those times of invincibility, that felt like I could fly across the world when I was in your company. These are resplendent memories.

The opportunity I had to call live soccer games with my friend on campus is just simplisitcally satiating. I sit at a pristine campus, on a gorgeous field of grass, watching the game I adore the most, especially with such a close friend of mine. These are resplendent memories.

See? Just as easy as it is to get caught up in the awful and unfortunate, we instantly forget the powerfully special times that are right there, too.

Life is a cycle. We have these weekends where they cannot end soon enough. We have the weekends we never want to end. We have moments that are painstaking, but they are replaced with memories of sheer joy. It's all a cycle, and what I know is that coming up are more sublime, blissful moments that I will soo never forget.

I knew there was a reason for complaining about my weekend.