I had gone to college in Tampa, which sidestepped the issue for a little while, but as an adult, in winter, I would fold again. So I set up a double-edged solution: I would sign up for a long spring race (from 10 miles to a marathon), which meant that I was exercising (always a useful tool against depression). It also meant that I would run long miles in the middle of the day, and soak up as much sun as I could in New Jersey in January, February and March.
But this year was different. I knew that I would never get my head above water if I stuck it out through another New Jersey winter. That’s why, with no pet to care for, no house to pay for and a transportable job as a freelance writer, I opted out of the season and headed south.
Running still played a part in my treatment. I chose an easy running schedule to train for the Daytona Beach Half Marathon: no speed work, no hills, just plain old miles four days a week. On cooler — for Florida — days, I’d run in the late morning, my skin tanning and highlights streaking through my hair two weeks in. For long Saturday morning runs, I would start before dawn and watch the sunrise along with drinkers and smokers and tourists. I’m sure I ended up in the background of a lot of their photos.
Every day, I drove my newly adopted dog to a dog park one town over, where she would run around sniffing other dogs while I turned my face to a warm, welcoming sun, then drive home humming to whatever Top 40 hit was on the radio. I felt like I was a flower unfurling its petals at dawn. I started smiling again. I started flirting again.
Last year I had cut a foot off my hair because I loved it and felt like I didn’t deserve to be beautiful. But in Florida, I decided to grow it back out. I met a friend in Walt Disney World and skipped down Main Street in a Donald Duck sweatshirt and wanted people to look at me. I felt like myself again: sometimes cantankerous, sometimes moody, but often funny and chatty and gladly writing and running.
By race day on Feb. 4, even though I was far off my personal record, I still grabbed my medal and a beach towel at the finish line, and celebrated with a beer and grilled cheese (then a long, hard nap, after which, even more improbably, the Philadelphia Eagles, my hometown team, won the Super Bowl).
This week I packed myself and the dog up to drive back to New Jersey without quite knowing where I will plant myself to start my life again (though my mother’s spare room works for now). I don’t know if I can be a snowbird every year. I assume I will eventually add rent or mortgage to the list of bills to pay. But I’m going to try, even if it’s only for a week or two: for more winter sunrises, for more sunlight, and even for more — why not? — joyful crying.
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