Go For A Run?

Dragging my overheated body towards the self assigned finish line, I finally near the curb where the dumpster sits near this mornings lawn. Gazing at the blades of grass, I make a conscience effort to refrain from dry heaving in my own front yard. After all, the inviting weather has brought more than just myself out of the house. Basking in the feeling of relief that my jaunt was over, I feel that I’m instantly granted an accomplishment that isn’t derived from anything else. While experiencing the pants of being oxygen deprived, I stagger inside and do what no person should ever do after a run, and dive towards the couch.

After months of excuses wearing thing, and an abundance of nachos reeking havoc on my previous fit and trim size…the choice had to be made to get my ass moving. It isn’t difficult to make a positive choice towards my health. Too bad there’s a difference between deciding and doing. Making an executive decision has never been a difficult task, but the execution seems to hang me up more often than not, especially when it comes to voluntary self torture.

Nonetheless, the chirping birds and sweet smell of spring were encouraging in their efforts to persuade me to tie on my running shoes. The actual act of running for any grown person who is considered to be “out of shape,” is nothing but awful. Funny how you find yourself fighting and setting continual mental benchmarks in order to coerce yourself to travel by foot for a lousy mile. I would prefer to save running for being chased, and magically trade my fat for fit with minimal effort.

Not all runs are so difficult. It’s getting started that squashes future attempts. The first few pavement pounding efforts typically resemble a boot camp that you’d prefer to have never enrolled in. Aside from the physical strain and mental reluctance to continue, I cannot refrain from the thoughts of how pathetic I look. Out of shape and panting, I am fully aware that I should run in the dark as to avoid making a spectacle of myself publicly for all of my neighbors to see.

But I cannot give a hoot about them, because they aren’t the ones trying to squeeze into my britches that tend to pinch me in half as a result of overindulgence during Christmas festivities. Maybe next year I’ll skip those pizzas made with a tiny piece of rye that is so adorable and nearly impossible to overlook much less refuse. I can’t be the only poor fool who has procrastinated the workout return until spring weather slammed in like summer.

Please tell me I am not alone. 😉