when in rome

Inside the stoic mountain, lava burns. It bubbles, but never erupts. The mountain is considered dead, and a whole village has sprung up on its foot, where the soil is fertile and the air fresh.

I was going to write about something else, but let’s vent a little.

630am, Thursday, February 27th, 2020

The Great and Illustrious Islamic Republic of Pakistan

First mile done. For the first time in a while, my first mile, and especially on the fourth day of the week, when I should have been worn down, my first mile was fast. For me. For this day. 12:35.1. Which wasn’t really that big a deal. I was doing an average of less than 12 minutes per mile for the week. But this was the fourth day, and I should be tired. Midway through the second, the guard stopped me. I was used to this. This happened yesterday too. Some uncle stopped me through my run, and congratulated me. “Well done, beta. MashAllah.” I was itching to get back to my run then. I was itching to get back to my run today too, soon as the guard stopped me today. He thrust his meaty palm into my own, and stepped in a little closer. “Yeh theek nahin hai.” This isn’t okay? I was a little confused until he gestured to my joggers. Is it because they’re a little wet from behind? I didn’t ask. “Some of the ladeez have complained.” I looked at his face, said ok, and resumed my run. What else could I do? I huffed and puffed. Inside, I was fuming. If someone had a problem with me, literally, all they needed to do was tell me. Not go talking- my watch buzzed that familiar buzz, and i saw the number 9:47.5 on it. A little burst of excitement. Dampened by two things, one modesty. This could just be an outlier mile. Two, what the guard had just said. Honestly, he doesn’t deserve a salaam. Going around enforcing stupid non-rules. Just because someone feels that they don't want to see my joggers doesn’t mean they can tell me to change them. I swear to God, if I find out who did it. I will tell them off. I usually don't.

I’ll tell the guard. This is what I’ll tell him. Wada changa kita hai, menu dassa. Hun meray nal kisee noo maslaa hou, tou uss noo dasnaa keh meray nal gal karay. You did a great job telling me. But if someone has a problem with me, tell them to talk to me directly.

Those fucking cowards.

No, I’ll fucking ask him his name. So that he understands the implied threat, I know who you are. I can get you fired. I won’t get him fired. He doesn’t have to know that. I’m not a terrible person honestly. I just hate it when people try to control my life. First they took away my compression gear or leggings, because when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Right, dad? Are you proud of me, dad? That I don't look gay anymore. Because who wears skin tight leggings. Even if you wear shorts over them. Then they took away my shorts. “Sir-

Buzz. Mile three. 9:51.9. Shit. A little hopeful. But I didn’t change my speed. Up or down. I kept at it at the same pace. Better steady than speedy.

Then they took away my shorts.