I may not have mentioned this yet, as we are still new to one another, but here it is: I hate running.
No really, I do.
I had forgotten how much I hated it until this morning. You see, once I had never run – not unless someone was chasing me. And then, right before I turned forty, sometime ago, I began running, mostly out of fear – of my expanding waistline, my shrinking jeans, my perceived dwindling life span. In fact, I ran 240 miles and in five months - just to prove I could do it I suppose, to prove I could still move, that my somewhat saggy physique was still capable of inertia. I hoped I’d drop some weight in the process and that did happen - but you could have measured it in ounces, single digit ounces.
Either way, I had proven I could do it, so like after the time I won second place at the junior high flute competition – I quit. I hung up my running shoes in favor of much saner, much less painful walking. Oh and yoga, which I actually have just recently come to love even though I have this one weird teacher that makes us blow our noses right before the class (for the breathing, he says) and I spend the rest of the class wondering what in heavens name I did with the used Kleenex. I mean, the last thing I want messing with my post-yogic, mellow state is a fellow exerciser, tapping on my shoulder, my used Kleenex in his outstretched hand, asking me if the offending item were mine.
Anyway. Lately, walking and yoga hasn’t really been cutting it. I’m getting the distinct feeling that I’m strictly maintaining and, frankly, what I’ve got hanging around my mid-section is something I’d much rather relocate. My muffin top is decidedly much too muffin-y; this morning, the worst possibility occurred to me: perhaps running is in order.
The thing about running – no matter whether you like it or not and I suppose there are folks that do - there is definitely the impression that something is happening. Maybe only ounces will be lost but no one can heave and ho and get all out of breath and sweat and hurt without something happening, right? I mean, even if my thighs and belly just decide to simply become back fat - that would be good right? I’m simply looking for movement here. A little change in distribution.
I started with 3/1’s – running three minutes, walking one minute, for a total of thirty minutes; I survived. As I was wrapping up, I passed by the hospital where I birthed both of our children; honestly, I think today I was in more pain.
OK, I’m going to go have a reduced fat turkey sandwich now, hold the mayo. Then I’m going to call up my teenage self and tell her to put on her bikini and wear it to the mall and then eat an order of fries, just because she can.