Tag Archives: relationships

Running from Friendship

I don’t have many friends. This is not a cry for help, nor is it a prelude to a heartwarming tale of self-discovery. It’s just a fact, like “I don’t like olives” or “I have never understood the appeal of jazzercise.” The friends I do have are scattered across the country like confetti after a parade—Kansas, North Carolina, California, Colorado, Wisconsin—each one safely insulated from the risk of spontaneous coffee invitations. Not a single one in Ohio, despite the fact that I live here, which is either a testament to my introversion or to the enduring mystery of Ohio itself.

Now, some might say this sounds lonely, and perhaps it is, but I find it oddly comforting. It’s a bit like running solo before dawn: the world is quiet, the air is crisp, and there’s nobody around to judge your pace, your playlist, or the fact that you’ve stopped to walk for the third time in a mile. I avoid judgment the way most runners avoid hills—by plotting elaborate routes and, if necessary, faking an injury.

I’m not what you’d call a “social” person. Every friend I’ve made has been through the forced proximity of work or some shared task. I’ve never met anyone in a bar and thought, “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” My friendships are more like aid stations on a marathon course: you’re thrown together by circumstance, you exchange a few words, maybe a cup of Gatorade, and then you’re off again, each of you running your own race.

I am, I suspect, a high-maintenance friend, which is why I try to keep a low profile. Most of my friends are older than me—sometimes by decades. My best friend Greg is creeping toward 70, which is perfect because neither of us is likely to suggest skydiving or a spontaneous road trip to Burning Man. What I want is a friend who will sit on the porch with me at 7:30 a.m., sipping coffee after I’ve already done three loads of laundry. Or someone who’ll go to Disney World and not ride anything, just people-watch and critique the churros. I want friends who understand that sometimes, the best part of getting together is knowing you can leave whenever you want, no explanations required.

And food—let’s talk about food. If there’s a tub of cookie dough, and I eat three-quarters of it, I expect nothing but silent admiration. Or at the very least, discretion.

At the end of the day, I just want to be comfortable. And that, I think, is why my circle is so small. Not many people make me feel at ease, and after a few too many disappointments, I’ve learned to stick with the ones who do. The people I keep close are consistent, reliable, and utterly nonjudgmental. I like the person I am around them, which, when you think about it, is a rare and wonderful thing.

In running, as in friendship, it’s not about the size of your group or the speed of your splits. It’s about finding your pace, your people, and your own version of comfort—whether that’s a sunrise run, a quiet porch, or a spoon and a tub of cookie dough. And if you’re lucky, you get to do it all without anyone asking why you’re walking again.

Running to My Husband

I never really understood why, but I always wanted to be a wife. Not in the “I want to be June Cleaver” sense, but more in the “I need a permanent audience for my daily musings on laundry and the existential crisis of mismatched socks” way. So, after seven years of dating—a period in which we both became experts in the fine art of waiting for the other to propose—my now-husband finally popped the question. I suspect, if I’m honest, that after seven years he simply ran out of plausible alternatives. It’s either get married or start a competitive stamp-collecting hobby, and he’s never been good with glue.

The early years of our marriage were, in retrospect, a bit like the opening act of a play where the actors haven’t quite memorized their lines. I knew he loved me—he did, after all, tolerate my penchant for keeping the tv on while dead asleep every night—but I wasn’t entirely sure he liked me. I was there, keeping small humans alive, contributing to the family bank account, and occasionally reminding him where we keep the can opener. It took another seven years (because apparently, we do everything in seven-year increments) before we rediscovered the spark that brought us together in the first place, and realized we actually wanted the same things out of life—namely, a working dishwasher and children who don’t use the curtains as napkins.

Now, nearly eleven years into this grand experiment called marriage, I can honestly say we’re growing together. We have shared goals, synchronized hopes, and—most importantly—a mutual understanding that whoever steps on the stray LEGO has earned the right to pick the next family movie. We’re strolling through life with a sense of purpose, trailed by three small boys who operate with the energy and coordination of caffeinated ducklings.

I never imagined being a boy mom would be so entertaining. My sons are perpetually grubby, constantly ricocheting off furniture, and have turned minor household accidents into a competitive sport. Every day is a blend of slapstick comedy and impromptu science experiments involving mud, gravity, and whatever was once clean. It’s the best kind of chaos, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My life is overflowing with more love (and laundry) than I ever thought possible, and for that, I am endlessly, comically, and profoundly grateful.