HomeIf you ask me today whether or not I like jogging, I'll tell you I hate it. I hate the way my breathing becomes labored, hate the way my ponytail swings from side to side, hate side-stepping speeding cars and bicycles, hate the pound of my feet on the uneven pavement, and especially hate the way my face turns beet red after only 15 minutes of methodical jogging. I even despise the mundane stretching exercises that come before the actual running. Yet, I still manage to go every other day ... so much so that I think I'm going to need to buy some more white socks to keep up with my aerobic habit.
It's the high that follows a well-planned run that I'm addicted to. After my very first successful run, I went home and cleaned the entire house, floor to ceiling. Even my mother never saw a bathtub sparkle as much as mine did.
Of course, severe muscle soreness appeared in my life the next morning as well. It even hurt to blink. I'm not sure I minded so much though. It was thats kind of pain that reminded me of my accomplishment - that I didn't fall flat on my face after my first half-mile.
I hobbled into work that day a wimpy victim of weekend warriorism, clutching to railings, walls, furniture ... anything that could steady me on my weak knees and shaking shins. Passers-by flashed me looks of deep concern. I told them I had played a hard game of racquetball ("You know how tough on the joints racquetball can be.") to divert them from the fact that something as simple as jogging could put me in such a state. On the way home, an elderly woman offered me some assistance in crossing the street. I almost took her up on the offer.
Today I run with perhaps a pinch more grace than before. I've even spiced up my wardrobe with some running shorts, complete with the racer stripe down the side of the leg. My sneakers bear the tiniest hints of wrinkles and the soles are not as pristine as they once were. I am fairly adept at avoiding large twigs, crater potholes, doggie doo-doo and parking cars. I wave at old couples sitting in their "house clothes" on their verandas and I speed past a dilapidated abandoned house ten blocks from my apartment. Delivery boys who wolf whistle at me get a not-so-elegant finger flipping and I almost always brake for furry animals who cross my path.
Sonata, girl, I can run! (Just let me catch my breath.)