For some reason I have this idea in my head that deep down inside I’m really the kind of person who enjoys running. I’m not sure why, because I’m what my sister calls “athletically challenged” and never stop complaining if I have to sweat (which is an awesome personality trait living in the desert) but still, I can’t seem to shake this delusion.
So every six months or so I say “I’m going to start running! Like, in the mornings and whatnot like one of those got-her-shit-together people. I’m going to get up, put on my least hippie looking pair of shoes, and run.” And I run for two mornings (at best) then realize how much I hate every single moment of it and quit.
Day before yesterday David was making an elaborate schedule to help him stick to a workout and eating plan and I figured, what the hell, might as well get this “I’m going to start running” thing over, it’s been about six months anyway.
So this morning I got up, put no my least hippie shoes (and my big girl panties to keep the whining at bay), and ran around my neighborhood for half an hour.
What makes this attempt different? I definitely haven’t stopped hating it, that’s for sure. Running hasn’t stopped sucking a thousand sucks. But this time, because it was woven into David’s master “getting in shape” tapestry he has agreed to be in charge of the kids for that half hour in the morning when I’m out. Previously I had to run with kids in the stroller (which somehow sucks even more than regular running… which I didn’t think was possible) or I had to wait till they were asleep and really, who wants to exercise at 8pm when their kids are finally asleep? Not this gal. Not when I could be curled up on the couch with a margarita, facebook, and reruns of 30Rock instead.
But I’m hoping the mere prospect of having a few minutes to myself (read:without anybody pulling my hair, pooping with in 3ft of me, or whining that their brother’s oatmeal has more honey on top than theirs) before the day kicks into high gear will be enough motivation to get me out the door.
And who knows, maybe my runner friends will be right and I’ll end up liking it. But probably not, because I secretly suspect their all masochistic liars.