So I've decided to start running.
Alright, alright. That's enough laughing from you, bucko.
No. Seriously. Stop laughing.
Seriously.
I suppose that, if you're a kid and a nun tells you that not everyone is cut out for sports, that perhaps you ought to rethink your career in the major leagues. Not that you had any ambitions for the major leagues, but you think to yourself: Dang it! If only my legs weren't hobbit-sized! That's the only thing that's holding me back.
Well, maybe your legs aren't hobbit-sized, but surely there are other reasons why you haven't joined the major leagues by now. A deviated septum, perhaps. Of course that would hold you back. Or else a suspicious mole on your back. If it weren't for that darned mole, you would have been a professional athlete.
If only.
All excuses aside, I know I'm just not cut out for most sports. But running? I have two functioning legs, two functioning lungs. Mostly functioning lungs.
Good legs, okay lungs...and I can't forget to mention the support of a very good friend who, despite being in much better shape than me, has agreed to follow a 13-week program along with me. So all the pieces are in place. I can run!
Almost.
After two weeks, I can run/jog one minute at a time, followed by a heavy-breathing four-minute walk. When I run, I suspect I look like a person with hobbit-sized legs trying to wobble her way to a decent pace, and when I walk, I suspect I sound like a heavy-breathing stalker. A stumpy-legged stalker.
Very cute.
