The number you retired

An old map will still mark a road closed long after it reopens. Your head keeps a map like that about your body. Somewhere on it is a number you retired. A distance you used to run. A pushup count. A hike you stopped suggesting. It got harder, then embarrassing, then gone, and nobody argued.

That map never updates itself. Ask how far you could go today and your head answers with the old number. The cigarette helped draw it, too, shrinking the goal a little at a time and calling it being realistic. Your body has had time to change. The map hasn't.

Guessing won't settle it. Memory has an agenda, and it likes you comfortable. Only a test redraws the map. Maybe the old number comes back easy. Maybe it takes a few tries. God's out on that route with you either way, glad for every step. An old map doesn't get to plan your week.

Put it on the calendar. The exact number you retired, on a specific day this week. Go alone if that's easier. Go slower than feels necessary. The goal isn't to beat it. It's to meet it again. Afterward, stick the result on the fridge or your lock screen. That's the first number on the new map.