Bring It

My new infatuation's open arms beckoned as I, sweaty and smiling, ran to its embrace. Sunlight fell like confetti through the eucalyptus, dusting my hair, kissing my upturned face. At this exquisitely turned arc in the journey, the flick between sojourn and realization, I raised my hands in thanks to the fair skies, sweet communion just at fingertips' end. Acting cool would have been effort wasted. We knew why I was there.

"Come on, Sarah!" ripped a lady watching from the curb, "bring it!" A goulash of permed hair spilled over her pink visor. The woman in the blue-and-faux lace tank top I'd been hopscotching since mile five—Sarah with the vocal fan, I presumed—zipped around me and sprinted to the finish line's embrace, a second ahead of me. Damn, she definitely brought it. Faster and in a cuter top.

But hey, I brought it, too—early morning alarm clocks and miles of iTunes, brought the crazy, brought the conviction that I would finish this humdinger and finish it strong. I didn't feel elation while crossing the finish line, because that was inevitable. But I did think to myself, "This isn't the finish. It's only the beginning."