Now, let’s talk about exercise. Growing up I was active enough. I climbed trees, participated in summer league softball (faithfully for 10 years), and jumped on the trampoline. I also fought viciously with my older sister, ran wild through the neighborhood, and took my high-spirited dog Sampson for walks while wearing rollerblades. Then in high school I played on the basketball, volleyball, track, and even marching band teams (during various years). I got my fair share of exercise.

So I don’t know where I went wrong. Somewhere along the timeline of my life, I developed a loathing for strenuous activity that I can’t seem to shake. Because it hurts to run. It’s not nice; it’s not natural–not to me. I’ve never understood the kind of people who say their “days don’t go well if they don’t get out there and run and blah blah blah.” You know the type–exercise people. Me? Not so much. Any day of mine wherein I do not feel compelled to put myself through utter pain and misery…well, that’s a pretty good day.

Nevertheless, I’ve put on weight (and lots of it) in the five months since I’ve been married, and I am just vain enough to dread going home to Arizona in May looking like this:

Moreover, I don’t fancy the idea of buying new jeans just because my expanding thighs can no longer fit into the ones I’ve got.

So, after putting off the dreaded inevitable for…oh, three months or so…I finally ran out of excuses. I ran. Not far, mind you. But far enough to remind me why I hate it so. To make matters worse, there is a {seemingly} continuous wind blowing here in Mayberry, and every time I attempt to exercise in it, I contract a new case of The Whooping Cough. That’s right–The Whooping Cough. I’ve been hacking and wheezing all day since my “workout,” and all I did was exercise for 20 minutes (only five of which minutes were rigorous). But what can I do? I can’t stop the wind from a-blowin’, so I just have to toil on. Indeed, my plight is mournful.

It has given me some insight, though–I do understand why people in serious emotional turmoil might turn to running as an escape: when I’m running, I’m so intensely miserable each step I take, there is absolutely no room for any other kind of misery. Got depression? Go running–I promise you’ll forget everything you once thought was bad in your life. Got a toothache? Go run somewhere–it’ll be like your tooth never ached at all. Dog die? Throw on some tennis shoes and run your living daylights out–by the time you get back, you will be so consumed in your own unfortunate existence, you’ll forget you ever even had a dog, let alone remember that it’s dead.

That’s how I feel about running.

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