It’s time for me to face the music. Or, to be more precise, the lack thereof. You see, perhaps if I hadn’t hidden my guitar under my bed, aged six, you’d be humming one of my songs right now, refreshing Ticketmaster while I lay on a beach pretending to date Travis Kelce (or at the very least, the tallest Jonas Brother) in an attempt to distract you from the fact I keep using my PJ to pop to the shops.
But instead, I’m at my desk writing this. Why? Because my mother raised a quitter. Or, more specifically someone who knows when to quit. Unlike, say, Liz Truss, I’m not delusional. When I realised halfway through my second music lesson that I had absolutely no rhythm, I knew I was wasting my time and my parents’ hard-earned money. So instead of strumming along, watching my teacher wince with agony and impatience, I went back to doing the thing I really loved: reading, which is exactly what brought me here, happily tapping away.
At the risk of sounding smug, so far, the cut-and-run technique has served me pretty well. Yes, I’ve experienced plenty of self-inflicted heartbreak, disappointment and embarrassment, but overall, giving up on my surveying degree, reading Homer and reluctantly trawling through Gilmore Girls has had huge benefits, freeing up precious time to pursue other things like writing, making questionable dating choices and rewatching The Sopranos.
This time, however, I’m not running anywhere. In fact, I’m going to flop on the sofa instead because despite securing a coveted place in this year’s London Marathon, I’ve decided to call it quits. No, not because I’ve got shin splints, am suffering from exhaustion or my dog ate my runners, but because I simply don’t want to struggle through 26.2 miles next Sunday. Of course, this is partly because I’m not prepared. Scrap that. Entirely because I’m not prepared. Instead of being a dedicated athlete, I have approached this task with the sort of insouciance you’ll only find in members of Kanye West’s media team.
You might be thinking this is nothing to brag about, and it’s probably not. But last year, under very different circumstances, I completed the London Marathon. I trained hard, I did it in a respectable time and I enjoyed it. This year, though, my life changed. Suddenly, I was released from a relationship where I was constantly told I should make more money, exercise harder and dwell on trauma, a relationship in which I forgot to say ‘no’ to the things that weren’t my priorities.
And at 30, my priority is having fun. Believe it or not, that does involve running, as well as cheering on all the other people taking on the Marathon from the sidelines. That, and eschewing the fear, dread and self-loathing attached to the word ‘should’ in favour of staying up all night salsa dancing with my friends and racking up my credit card bill.
I’ve deferred my place because next year, I’d like to do it again. But this year, I should really just go and lie on the sofa — and it’s okay if you do that, too.
