I began a really noble goal a few weeks ago, and I am in danger of quitting. For my entire life, I have HATED EXERCISE! So badly that when I watch the motivating workout scenes with fanfare trumpet music in the background on Rocky I almost want to puke. I have been inspired by my husband, and dear friends such as Kara, to give running a try. I figured that granny walking wasn't really exciting enough. My husband didn't start running until he turned thirty a few years ago, and he swears that your prime for running isn't until you pass thirty anyway. He got to where he was running over eight miles at a time. (I was secretly envious)
The problem is, I have horrible mental associations with running. I used to tell people in high school (when I was eighty pounds thinner) that I would only run if someone was chasing me. However, I was forced to run a mile weekly in my PE class with the coach that we not so affectionately called "Forrest Gump". I want to get past the pain that I'm feeling now. By pain I mean the jarring jittering sensation that I get when I run my measely half of a mile now. I want it to look and feel effortless, like the African man that runs across campus daily. When I see him run, he looks like a graceful gazelle, and like he just really enjoys it.
Jack swears to me that it will get better. And I almost believe him. I am made of the same bones, sinews, and body parts as the swift African runner, why can't I do it too? I'm shamefull of my hatred and pessimissm. My eighty five year old grandfather is in better shape than me. He really is, I promise. The man walks three miles every day. I secretly long for a leaner body that glides along the pavement like butter. However, I just really really want to overcome my inner running demons. Three days a week Jack serves as my coach. "Ya Bum" he calls to me as I'm out the door to the field outside. I try to ignore my inner voice who swears that I look like jabba the hut in running shoes. Please don't look at my butt as my feet hit the pavement!
