MOVe

I want out of here. I want to get on a plane and go someplace foreign and delightful and I want out of my brain, out of this malfunctioning body. I want to spend a fortnight or two in the body of Usain Bolt or LeBron James or yoga master Baron Baptiste. I want to feel a heart that beats regularly, even if I stretch my long legs into a run, to be able to raise my arms above my head and bend my back and open my hips. I want a day without headaches, knee creaks, shoulder whinging and winter winds. I want to cuddle my cat without sneezing. I want to get on a plane without a giant zip lock bag full of pills. I want to make a plan for next week, next month, next year, and be able to keep it. I want to go to Italy, eat robustly, drink red wine, jog along the arno, take a dance class with my friend Giulia, and still have breath to dance.