I am not an athlete. I was the kid in third grade who got a hold of the soccer ball and scored a goal on my own team. Yup, and I was teased about it for years. I was also the girl who later in junior high and high school tried everything from basketball to field hockey and never knew what the hell way going on. I felt stupid and clumsy and out of my league, which is not to say that I don’t like moving my body. I love to swim. I love to dance. I love to have sex. But sports? Pain? Competition? Not my thing.

Last Sunday, I went to see my friend Molly May in the Nautica Olympic Distance Triathlon. I woke up at 6AM to get there by 6:30AM to see her dive into the Hudson River. Crazy girl. I did this for two reasons. One, I love Molly and wanted to support and witness her do something so badass. Two, I had never seen a marathon or triathlon and was curious. I was curious what made these people different from me.

Waking up that early on a Sunday morning, as ungodly as it might sound, was an amazing experience. The air was gentle. The sky seemed more open. The city felt quiet. I made my way into the park and heard someone on a microphone announcing the various groups getting in the water. I was worried I had missed her. The first 24-29 group had already jumped in. Then the second group was called, and there she was, walking down the ramp. She spotted me first and called out my name. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. There was an excitement in her eyes that was contagious. I kind of wanted to jump in with her.

As she held onto the rope, waiting for the bell to ring, I raced down to 78th street where she would be getting out. I passed hundreds and hundreds of people, including a lot of very, hot men. Cut. Built. Strong. I thought to myself, wow, single women should just come here to meet men, and then I thought, could I ever be with an athlete? Would they mind my tummy? Would I have to take up running? Would I have to learn baseball stats or embrace March Madness?

Walking along the promenade, I heard a young woman scream, “Go mom!” She was about 27, which meant her mom had to be at least in her fifties. I looked into the water and saw all shapes and sizes. Women swimming at all kinds of speeds. Black caps passing yellow caps passing pink caps. Then I looked up and saw a man with a metal leg. Jesus, I’m a lazy fuck. Why isn’t my ass in the water alongside that girl’s mom? Why aren’t I training and raising money for good causes? I felt the human spirit all around me soar and fill the air. This was more than sport. This was heart.

Molly got out of the water and jogged up the ramp, but the grime from the river had left a black beard on her face, making her unrecognizable. I only knew it was her when she passed, and I saw her named written on the back of her jersey.

“Go Molly!” I screamed.

Then I waited for her to round the corner on her bike. “1269, 1269,” I kept repeating to myself in my head, not wanting to miss her. There she was, heading my way. I snapped a shot with my cell phone.

I yelled again, “Go, MOLLY!” and saw her crack a smile. She heard me! Yes!

I was thrilled, and tired, so I went back to my apartment to take a nap. Around 9:30AM, I headed to the finish line in Central Park. I was still a little groggy, but the joy on everyone’s faces woke me up and made me cry. I couldn’t believe I was crying at a Triathlon.

By the time I got there, Molly had already finished. She made incredible time. She didn’t just do it. She did it!

I texted to her to say I was by the red tent. She found me. We hugged.

“This is really emotional,” I said.

“Isn’t it?”she said, her eyes looking more present and alive than I had ever seen them, and that’s saying a lot.

For the first time in my life, I got it. I totally got it. I got the beauty and power of pushing yourself physically, pushing beyond what you think you’re capable of. If you’re in your head all the time, you can forget you’re of this earth. You can forget you’re human. When you live in your body, treat it well, push it, challenge it, it grounds you.

I’m not signing up tomorrow or anything, but it made me want to be in my body more. It made me want to learn myself in a whole new way. Maybe that means pilates, yoga, walking. Maybe it means joining a softball team or running team. Whatever it is, I think sports can be its own kind of therapy. It’s own kind of self-discovery. And if I were to meet a man who were an athlete, lets just say, I would appreciate him in a different way than I would have before.

Thank you, Molly, for opening my heart, for inspiring me, for being badass and for being on this planet. I’m glad this week’s Therapy Thursdays happen to fall on your birthday. Happy, happy birthday, sweet girl! What a gift you gave yourself.

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Kimmi
Therapy Thursdays