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You can go home on the following conditions: 1) You will take Prozac, the high dose, and you won’t even think about getting off it for an entire year, and 2) You will make yourself run, every day, for at least 20 minutes.Because your life depends on it.” I agreed, and stood behind the Plexiglass window by the nursing station, waiting for the bin that held all the belongings I had been required to hand over the day I checked in: my wallet, my keys, and the laces from my running shoes.So began my relationship with running, and my boyfriend’s with organized religion.

Our “Boogie Chillen’” nights repeated on an endless dreamy loop those first few months.

After a morning of trying to be a good Latter-day Saint by skipping breakfast, putting on a dress, and spending three hours reading scripture and singing songs about how my body is a temple (and the only person I should ever let inside it was my wedded husband), all I could think about was peeling off my sweaty pantyhose and stuffing my face with Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Up until that moment, I had ignored this boy, who had moved to our neighborhood the year before from Maine.

But what I was seeing as I felt my stomach growl and my nylons riding down my crotch was a puberty miracle.

His first lick — barely touching the inside of my lips and the tip of my teeth — was infused with the knowledge, beyond his years, that his only job was to keep me from bolting, to stay, and want just a little more.

It didn’t take long for John Lee Hooker’s lyrics to become my own mantra: What a terrible, wonderful moment — to realize what I wanted was not to run away, but to stop and be still, to taste and be tasted, and to let someone know this secret about me that I was supposed to keep to myself for many virginal years to come.

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