Hustle

One of my father's favorite words (besides "sharp" used to describe something that was nice looking) was hustle. Last night I hustled on my run; no one was chasing me. The whole reason for the hustle was the group. Since moving to our new community, I've been able to join a running group that actually meets at a convenient time. This group has been one of the greatest experiences of late. I haven't written in a while because I've been in my own personal self-pitying tempest. I've got everything a girl could want: health, a great husband, a beautiful house and a wonderful fun-loving Boston Terrier. Yet, somehow I managed to slide into an unfortunate depression. I haven't felt this way in many, many years. The support of my husband and the interaction of this running group have been my saving graces, along with the ability to talk through my feelings with a small circle of individuals I consider to be friends. Last night the running group consisted of six people. Our fearless leader, a veteran runner, decided to push the pace. Apparently we finished the route in a record time for the group.

Incidentally, one of my father's other favorite expressions was "bowel movement." There was a period in my youth when I often feigned illness so that I wouldn't have to go to school. My "illness" often took the form of a stomach malady. He occasionally would ask if I had had a "bowel movement." Frankly, I had no idea what he was talking about, so I replied "I don't know." My ruse was up when, after several months of stomach problems, my father finally took me to a doctor who found nothing wrong with me (except an aversion to school at the time, where I was a total misfit wallflower).