WRITING

In this era of fried dopamine receptors, I've been working on choosing delayed gratification. So when I found out I was pregnant a few weeks ago, I decided to get an abortion.

It’s 5:16 AM. Middle of February. My alarm goes off, incessant and plangent, and I slam the snooze button instantly. Sirens beckon me to skip the run entirely; never has my bed been so comfortable, never has sleep felt so lucid and promising. It’s still dark out, for fuck’s sake.

A TV show featuring a gay love story invites the girls and gays into a sporting world that is notoriously homophobic and sexist. Off the coattails of the show finale, the Olympics offered an undeniable moment to bridge the divide.

When I told a friend I was going, she politely discouraged my attendance. Her reasoning: Only “vaginas should compete against vaginas,” and as a semi-competitive runner, I’d be naive to think that I wouldn’t have an obvious disadvantage racing against a transgender woman.