Sprint

I was walking to uni the other day, and I was running late. I had a lecture at 10am and I was cutting it REALLY fine. I still had a good two, maybe three hundred meters to go. I had one minute to make this lecture, which was supposed to be a remarkably important lecture from a special guest up from Sydney, so being late would have been an opportunity to be made an example of by my lecturer, and having spent the night before awake until 4am working on an assignment, I was not in the mood to have that done to me.

So, here I am, running late, terrified of the consequences should I not make it in time, still a few hundred meters until I reach my destination. I look at my phone to check the time, and see that it’s 9.59. I have less than a minute to make it to class.

And it is at this point, in sheer panic and stress and sleep deprivation, that a thought crosses my mind that was the stupidest thing I’ve thought in a long time.

So I look down at the clock on my phone, 9.59, and I have ONE MINUTE to get to class on time and avoid humiliation. ONE MINUTE.

And then I hear a little voice inside my brain say, “It’s okay, you can make it…”

“If you sprint…”

IF. I. SPRINT.

I’m sorry, brain. What part of my physique do you not understand? Sprinting? NO CAN DO. Surely you can work out why? I’m a fatty, fatty boomba who gets a sense of fulfillment if I can make it to the end of the driveway and back without having an asthma attack.

“If you sprint.” Sometimes my own idiocy bewilders even me.

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