Bought Myself a Running Present
The 8k in Milwaukee is only three weeks away, and I’m starting to regret not being more committed to a real training schedule. Unfortunately the Day Job and the freelancing gigs are sucking me of all energy lately. When I’m at home in the evenings, I consider it a victory just to acknowledge that I own running shoes and a treadmill. Then I celebrate with things like homemade blueberry cobbler and M&Ms.
I will always be a slow runner. In fact, most exercise charts put my running pace in the “brisk walk” category. To those people I very politely say, “Bite. Me.” And “Four point three miles per hour is so jogging. Watch!”
I’ve got a pretty chubby midsection, and it takes a long time for everything to rebound and jiggle thoroughly before my body will even consider placing another foot in the space in front of me. But you know what? I do it. (Okay, fine. I do it sometimes.) And when I do, I feel kind of like that poor woman who put like three pennies and some pocket lint in the offering box at the temple. So what if rich guys were dropping Benjamins right and left? Didn’t mean crap to Jesus, yo!
Similarly—at least in my rationalizing mind—it’s also kind of absurd to be impressed with a 6’3″, 150-lb man who runs a mile in less than five minutes.
Stop oohing and aahing over him. You should be all, “Oh. My. God. Look at that well-fed girl of average height over there. She’s running five whole miles at one time!!!”