Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

When I was five years old, I was Mary Poppins in the Little Folks Fair, a variety show put on by my preschool every year. Most of the numbers in the Fair were group songs, and each year the show was a bit different based on the kindergarten class. The school director hand-picked me to play Mary Poppins and sing Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and do a tap dance -- alone! Apparently, before the show my mother asked me if I was nervous. My reply was, "Mom, I'm simply going to do the best I can do." No nerves. No stagefright. Just calm and assured.

My mother told me the story (again!) this weekend of how all the other songs were very simplistic (we were only five, after all!), and how several of the other kids were picking their noses onstage, or forgetting their lines, or whatever. (Again, it's a kindergarten production!)

And then I came out, literally belting out my big solo. My mother and aunt were sobbing their faces off in the audience. Behind them, another audience member said, "Now THERE'S a talented child." Well, forget it. Mom and my aunt were hysterical.

During yesterday's truly craptastic 9-mile run, I recalled the conversation Mom and I had had Saturday night and wondered where that fearless child had gone. At what point do we lose that fearlessness? That feeling of invincibility? Sure, I'm older and wiser now... but I'm also much more fearful, more critical, and more cynical.

Yesterday I was ready to give up running forever. I wanted to stop. I wanted to sit on the curb and wait for someone to take pity on me and drive me home. I was disgusted with myself, disappointed in my conditioning, and in tears over how bad it hurt and how awful it felt.

"Where did that little girl go?" I wondered. "What happened to her? To me? She feared nothing, and I'm in tears over a bad run? She wouldn't have ever dreamed of giving up, but I'm thinking about dropping out of my fall Half Marathon?"

I want to be Mary Poppins again. I want to shine, to be confident, to be content. I want to be able to take chances and not worry about failing. And if I do fail, I want to be able to say, "That's OK. I simply did the best I could do."