The Race Is On, by Martha Thomases – Brilliant Disguise | @MDWorld

March 4, 2016 Victor El-Khouri 2 Comments

My long-legged father grew up in The Bronx, and he walked like a New Yorker.  I remember running after him as he took after-dinner strolls with our dog.

So I walk fast, too.

Recently, I’ve had to slow down.  There’s nothing wrong with me (other than that twisted knee last fall, which sucked), but many of my friends and relatives are unable to keep up with me.  Remembering how panicked I was as a kid, watching my father striding away, I try to adapt to their needs.

Last weekend, I went away to a resort in the Catskills.  It’s the first time I’ve ever done anything like this, especially as a single adult.  A friend went with me, but I’m still claiming credit for making the plans by myself and participating in activities by myself.  I don’t think I’ve ever been able to do things on vacation simply because I wanted to do them, without consulting with my parents or my spouse or my child.

(Note:  None of these people were unreasonable tyrants.  Part of the pleasure of a family is cooperating and sharing.  I’m just talking about my new discovered pleasures in being selfish.)

One of the things I did was to take a hike through the mountains.  It wasn’t a difficult hike, in that the path was clear and I didn’t have to cross creeks on slippery rocks.  The morning was clear and crisp, and I spent my time looking at ice formations and tree buds, wondering how long it would be before the leaves emerged.

Occasionally, I would tell myself to slow down.  I wasn’t being a good hiker, I thought, because I was speeding through things instead of appreciating them.  I should be noticing the stark beauty of mid-winter, I thought.  I should observe every sparrow, and every bit of stone.  I should pay attention to my breathing, because the air was so fresh and clean.

Lost in these thoughts, I would continue on, until I noticed that I had sped up again.

Walking at my pace is what is normal for me.  To walk more slowly takes me out of the moment, so that all I think about is what I should be doing, not what is actually happening.  This seemed like such a good metaphor about my life lately that I practically skipped to the top.

(Note:  I didn’t actually skip.  I wasn’t wearing the right bra for that.)

There will come a time when I have no choice but to slow down, if I’m lucky enough to live that long.  My father, in his 80s, walked slowly, with short steps instead of his dog-walking gait.  For now, I try to be grateful that my legs work.

I came back from my weekend away to find out that, suddenly, the Ku Klux Klan was a thing again.  And Donald Trump seemed to say that, if he had wanted to, he could have made Mitt Romney give him a blow-job.  I try to maintain some of the peace I found in my solitary thoughts on the path.

The sparrows in my neighborhood are much more noisy and bossier than those upstate.  When I walk quickly, it is not because I am lost in thought, but because, as a New Yorker, I have shit to do.

Media Goddess Martha Thomases got through a weekend with no television, and is pretty damned proud of herself for it.