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I run. I hate joggers who say they run. I ran Boston and I can't stand it when a person who did an 8 hour marathon crows about finishing to me as if we are somehow brothers in arms.
But then my sis, who was born with a crippling birth defect, took up running at the age of 35. As a kid she was constantly warned that the 7 major surgeries she endured before the age of 6 would render her too arthritic to walk by age 20. Total hip replacement has always been a certainty of her life ( and took place a month ago - a 9 hour operation).
But back to my point - 5 years ago she decided to run a marathon, this girl-turned-woman who has never, ever walked without a weird shuffling limp. Her let has these big Frankenstein-y scars, because back when they pioneered the groundbreaking surgeries on her body, she wasn't really expected to be around long enough to care about scars.
She ran a 6 hour marathon. I, her 3 hour marathoner sister, ran next to her. Let me tell you something - it takes one thing to be world class. A big, huge, mind-breaking thing some people never ever can get (maybe I came close: I was a scholarship athlete and played semi-pro in my sport and know about 6 hour practice days and hoping the nerve-induced pee trickles aren't showing on my uniform as I take my place before the eyes of thousands). It takes another thing - a different thing, an important thing - to give it all you've got and still be pretty bad, and be OK with it because the cards you were dealt means you can't really expect anything more - that the great American elixir of *trying* won't get you further, no matter what.
Your pov is not beastly so much as other-wordly - cut yourself some slack. And realize that empathy can take you places that your Olypian body can't.
