Runners describe a metabolic occurrence as “hitting the wall”; their bodies use up vital stores of glycogen or quick burning sugars. The result is not what you might visualize as literally falling down in the middle of the road. Instead, the runner slows down, even though they may have been feeling just fine a minute before. They feel tired. Then they have to stop and eat or consume a sugary drink to restore the balance.
Those of us who must work outside the home “hit the wall” frequently, in our minds, hearts, and bodies. We forget (or fail to plan or just do not have time) to eat properly. We are thinking about home when at work. When at home, we think of work. At least nine hours of our day, plus commute, is eaten up in earning cash. Exercise, what is that? Errands get done during lunch hours or on the weekends. Some of us must travel for our business, away from home, state, and even country.
This is not some giant pity party I am staging; these are the honest realities we face in the corporate-military-industrial-government complex. Our masters are much harsher than the feminists claim our husbands and fathers ever were. The powers-that-are pay us just enough to keep coming back, grant us enough health coverage to keep us alive, and enough time off to barely sleep and eat. Our relationships, our bodies, our families, our communities, and -dare I say it- our world suffers for it.
Some of us working women, like runners, have a blessed finish line to the rat race. My line is nearing, though I do not know the exact location, I can hear the cheering crowds. Only…I am tired. My body is starting to refuse to wake up, which is traumatizing to an early bird. Every little unexpected thing sends me to the verge of tears. I dread work; I dread coming home to a mess. Neither is really cared for well.
Opportunities are opening for my husband’s future. We heard of a good position just yesterday. I am exceedingly grateful, like the marathoner who is handed a sports drink. Just two miles, just two months. I can make it.