Lately, I’ve been running. Like, a lot.
Not emotionally running, not spiritually running, literally running. Like a suburban Forrest Gump but with better sneakers and slightly more emotional baggage.
I’ve been practicing that elusive art: tempo and balance, also known as "not dying on the side of the road like a tragic motivational poster."
Today, as I galloped through the neighborhood like an off-brand gazelle, I listened to my body.
She whispered in her raspy little voice: “Hey queen, lungs are tight, maybe chill for a sec?” And because we respect boundaries now (thanks, therapy), I slowed down, caught my breath, and did a dramatic power walk.
Call it a compromise between my ambition and my basic human need for oxygen.
Post-run ritual?
Simple. Two packets of Strawberry Quaker Oatmeal, the gourmet’s choice of instant oatmeal, plus one heroic scoop of Vanilla Quest Protein Powder.
Quick stats:
- 330 calories
- 30 grams of protein
- (For my metric friends: roughly 1380 kilojoules and 30 grams of pure muscle pixie dust.)
Normally, this suffices. Normally, I’m content.
But today? Oh no.
Today, my body screamed for something sweet. Not like a cute craving, like a full-blown crackhead for cupcakes kind of need.
I could have raided a Girl Scouts' cookie stash without remorse.
And that’s when it happened.
Somewhere in my sugar-deprived delirium, I started humming.
The word “sweet” echoing in my head, trying to recall something soft, romantic, melodic.
Like... Maria spinning on a hilltop kind of song.
You know... The Sound of Music.
The Words of Music.
I expected something gentle, something tender.
This is what floated out of my cracked lips:
"Do you love me, do you love me not?"
Damn, you hit the spot
Taste like candy, sweet like fruit
Wet like water, can I love on you?
Oh. My. God.
Poetry.
Raw. Vulnerable. Shakespearean.
The lips kept moving.
Withdrawals, I'm feelin' different, every day I need a dose,
Every now and then I'm missin', I got my times when I go ghost,
But she mine, I'm stampin' her,
Priority status, so them other [ladies] mad at her.
Cue the dramatic orchestra.
I could feel it, a tidal wave of emotion. Such depth. Such soul. Such persistence in the human condition. I had stumbled, friends, not just onto a song, but onto a movement.
This wasn’t just about love. This was about addiction. About longing. About... hydration.
A modern-day sonnet.
A transformational artist. A philosopher. A man not afraid to bare his heart (and his thirst) for all the world to see.
I’m thinking to myself:
Who could this be?
Some long-lost descendant of Mozart?
A reincarnation of Marvin Gaye?
The lyrical second coming of Rumi?
Friends. It was none other than.....
Moneybagg Yo.
That’s right. The ballad was “Wockesha.”
An ode to love... or, if we’re being honest, an ode to cough syrup (but make it romantic).
Check it out. Wockesha by Moneybagg Yo — it's The Sound of Music, But for those of us who prefer our love songs with a side of swagger.
Oh, and because balance is key, I drizzled honey into my oatmeal after all that. For my health, obviously. Nature’s candy. 🐝✨