I hate running. I hate running because you always have to run (or taxi) back to the spot from which you started. I hate running because you need shoes and running clothes and a snazzy headband (and matching wristbands.)
Snazzy belongs on the dancefloor darlings, never the gym floor.
I much prefer mall-walking. Last night Bryce and I ran. Well…we jogged. We jogged even though there is a mall within walking distance of our quaint apartment. We jogged in a straight line down Newark avenue. We jogged because jogging is what people do this time of year. Guilt stricken people who weeks earlier had two, three extra slices of Granny's famous pudding cake. I more than sampled the family Whitman's sampler; I made that little box of chocolates my bitch during the holiday season.
Now I sit on the sofa and my tufted tummy plays peek-a-boo from beneath most of my t-shirts. In my own defense they ARE micro-t's. My dandy friend Reynard (he's in fashion) told me micro-t's on cubs was going to be HUGE in 2006. The aforementioned micro-t reads “Sassy Pants” all in glittery Zaph-Chancery lettering. Sassy Pants, indeed. I lost track of what my pants looked like around December 13th. It's all tummy now a days.
Sigh. So we ran...er jogged. Sprinting through the purple haze of past memoirs, it suddenly occurs to me that I've written about running in my diary before. Bear in mind dear reader that I was certainly no physical education major growing up. That elevated pedestal of academia was typically reserved for the butch girls on the volleyball team who only wore track suits, even to the prom! Can you imagine?! Not snazzy! No, alas, I was a bit of an introvert in my youth; certainly not as athletic as many of my contemporaries.
So any cardiovascular aspirations in the now are usually executed not with extreme, mad skillz, but with extreme, mad reservation. I hate exerting myself. I’m easily talked out of such sweaty activities, but my lover (his tummy shows from his micro-t as well – soooo adorable) and I made a solemn pledge that we’d exercise and, alas, running was the choice we made.
So with no conclusive path in mind, we simply jogged down Newark Avenue in the utter dark of a chilly January night. We dodged beat up cars Hellbent on bruising us and Hispanic mothers with crying babies. We charged onward and ignored our collapsing lungs and fatigued legs. We challenged our plump, holiday fed bodies, drawn by some invisible force, some urge to excel!
Then we realized we’d simply run to the neighborhood pancake house. There was no real desire to make ourselves more fit. We’d been compelled to run by a subconscious pull towards flapjacks. Appropriately enough we glistened like bacon. Luckily we did not indulge in breakfast for dinner; although such a tasty treat is one of my favorite rewards. This particular pancake house really isn’t a very spectacular culinary experience. One particularly loathsome creation is their meat-pancake. A stack of five unassuming pancakes concealing a carnivore's chutney of cubed sausage, greasy bacon and boiled ham bits. I kid you not.
AND it’s served with additional meat! Not that I’ve ever ordered it…
We considered jogging home, but instead walked. How I do love resolutions.