PUBLISHED 10/23/2007
"Mom, I need a costume!" my 9-year-old son yells.
Costume? Hadn't he settled on being a hobo this Halloween? I already have the patches cut out, ready to sew onto an old pair of jeans. His costume ideas keep changing. Last week he was going as an ogre.
"Halloween is tomorrow," I remind him. "You can't keep changing your mind."
He tells me he's certain this time: He wants to be a superhero. Since there's so little time, I try to convince him that a hobo is a much better choice. After all, I'm not a witch, able to spout off some magic words and presto, a dishrag becomes a costume.
From the look on his face, I sense a small tantrum coming, so I back off.
"Let's see what we can do," I say.
We start with an old black turtleneck for his top. I sew a glow-in-the-dark logo on the front. Now he needs a cape. No problem. I have oodles of black cotton fabric. I cut out a cape and stitch on some more glow-in-the-dark symbols. Not bad.
I'm on a roll, and my enthusiasm builds. It's the same feeling I have when a run I've dreaded turns out to be wonderful. These runs always give me that great "Hey, I can do this!" sensation.
But sometimes I hit the wall.
Which is exactly what happens with my son's costume. The problem: no black pants. I could make a pair out of the black fabric, but that would take too much time. I rummage through my closet, searching for anything that might work.
Then I see them. Perfect. Except for one thing. They're my favorite running tights.
These tights are my second skin. They're next to me through the cold months. They protect me. They look good on me. Could I bear to see them on another pair of legs?
I hold them up. Any superhero would kill to wear these tights. My son comes into the room and finds me gazing at them.
"Hey, those are perfect," he says. "Can I use 'em?"
I look at my tights, then at my son. Well, it is Halloween.
On Halloween night my superhero takes off on his mission to fill his candy sack. He runs excitedly from house to house, bounces up steps, and leaps over hedges. Yup, he's a superhero.
The next day, I find my black tights discarded next to the candy sack. I put them on while pulling out bits of stuffing I'd used to fill them out. I wonder if they're permanently misshapen, but I pull them on and am pleasantly surprised when they conform nicely to my legs.
Once outside on my run, I notice something different. I feel a spring in my step, and I bound along with ease.
Could it be that my running tights are now imbued with superhero power? I laugh, then realize that a certain magic actually has worked its way into my tights-the magic of childhood. I think back to running as a child. Back then, I ran not because it was good for me, but because it felt good. I ran because I was a kid and I could. I just ran, often with twirls and giggles.
My son and his superhero tights remind me of those childhood moments. Today I ran just for the heck of it. And it felt great.
