Andrea

I had a dream this weekend about a woman I knew long ago.  Her name is Andrea and I knew her when we were both waiting tables at a Manhattan diner.  I was fresh out of college and she seemed infinitely older and wiser than me, although she was years younger than I am now.

I can’t remember how it came up.  Perhaps I was complaining about the monthly cost of a gym membership, which even then could set you back more in New York than rent in any other city. Perhaps it was in response to how I wished my arms could be as toned and lean as hers.  Perhaps it started with an offhand comment about how she was training for a marathon, which to me could have been ten blocks or one hundred miles, such was my knowledge at the time.

Whatever the reason, Andrea suggested that I start running.

I thought it was insane.  My feet were sore after every shift and I couldn’t imagine choosing to further abuse them by running around even more.  My last and only foray into running was in junior high and high school P.E.  I remember I couldn’t even finish three revolutions around the track without having to stop and walk.  Andrea brushed off all these excuses, saying that anyone could run, it cost nothing, and it would be almost criminal to live in such close proximity to a place as beautiful as Central Park and not take advantage of it.  She said I should just try to run the two-mile lower loop and she kept after me until I did.

My first time around I felt like my lungs were on fire. I think I started heaving at one point. I didn’t run the whole thing the first time, but the next time I did.  And the next time.  And the time after that.  And then I ran it twice.

I would excitedly report my progress to Andrea, who pushed me to go further.  She told me the whole park was a six-mile loop, but there was a five-mile cutaway right after the baseball fields.  I set out to do five, but missed the turnoff and ended up running all six miles.  While I felt tricked into going further than I thought I was capable of, the feeling of pride was overwhelming.

Andrea encouraged me to buy proper running shoes.  She encouraged me to run with her, which I did once but could barely keep up.  She encouraged me to enter my first race, a 10K in the park that I finished with just enough time to shower before working the lunch shift.  She encouraged me to keep going until I no longer needed to be encouraged.

Then, I left that job.  I kept running, but we didn’t keep in touch. When I moved away from New York, it seemed pointless to find her just to say goodbye.

Every time I go back to visit, I run Central Park.  And every time I run Central Park, I find myself looking for her.  Once when I was there with A, I thought I saw her running towards us.  I called out but this woman clearly didn’t recognize me.  (I then became convinced it was her twin – because she did have a twin – and I almost chased her down again, but A advised me to just leave the poor lady alone.)

There is a large part of me that would love to run into her to see how she’s doing and to thank her for introducing me to something that’s turned out to be such a large part of my identity.  What’s funny is that in this age of social media, it’s seems almost impossible to lose touch with someone.  Indeed, if I wanted to I could easily reach out to her online.

But as much as I’d like to see her again, I’ve also been someone who firmly believes that it’s natural for relationships to be transitory, that one must shed situational acquaintances to bring true, life-long friends into sharper relief.  I also find that maintaining a passive cyber connection can sometimes pervert the memory of what you originally shared.  Therefore I prefer to look upon my friendship with Andrea in the rear view, remember what a positive influence she was on me during a very impressionable period in my life, and hope that on an unassigned plane of consciousness she knows that she contributed to the happiness of someone she has long since forgotten.

And, of course, I hope she is still running.