Started running again. And by started, I really mean "today, for the first time in months, I went on a short run and didn't die and therefore have some kind of inclination to repeat the experience in the near future."
As you might have guessed from the preceding, I am not an athletic person. I sometimes feel guilt over this, especially because a disproportionate number of my friends are mutants who run marathons and can bend into impossible positions and will show up at lunch and casually mention that while I was sleeping off a hangover they were biking to a neighboring state. But then I also have friends more like me, ones who have a vague knowledge of exercise as being beneficial and vaguely less unpleasant than a root canal, but only engage with marathons if they are of the America's-Next-Top-Model variety.
There have only been three times in my life where it could be said I was in any way inclined towards physical activity. They were, in chronological order:
- Fifth grade. I took figure skating seriously enough to go to the rink in the mornings before school and con my parents into private lessons, but not seriously enough to ever be very good at it. I spent great deals of time designing costumes I could wear for my future Olympic routines (almost always set to Broadway showtunes of the 70's and 80's) and mentally preparing for my appearance on 'The Rosie O'Donnell' show once I had won gold. Tragically, my career was cut short when my coach got pregnant and I lacked the motivation to find a replacement. Heart of a champion, right there.
- Freshmen year of high school. I went to super hard core nerd school, where the constant quest of any team was to break even in the wins/losses column and maybe have the cheerleaders grasp when we were on defense as opposed to offense. It was therefore the perfect environment for someone like me, who was interested in the camaraderie and sense of purpose afforded by team sports despite lacking the physical prowess to compete against people possessing hand-eye coordination and stamina. I, of course, wound up on the crew team, one of the few teams at the school that was actually good and where the coaches were slightly disappointed if you didn't throw-up from exertion during a work-out. I gave rowing one year of my life, made some great friends and won some ribbons, and then realized I was never going to care as much about my heart rate as I did about what color was being used to paint the set of the spring musical.
- After moving back from London. My dissolute lifestyle was wonderful, but the countless nights drinking after work led to my clothes being a little bit tighter when I came back to America than when I had left. I joined a local gym, the kind with individual TVs, and caught up with multiple seasons of Law and Order while simultaneously running many, many miles. To date, this is the only sustained period of self-motivated physical activity of my young life. It made me feel very adult and healthy and was promptly abandoned upon coming back to England.
And thus, here we are. Another half-hearted attempt to join the ranks of the vaguely athletic. The motivation? Not goals, or teamwork or vanity this time. Nope! Just a desire to get a good night's sleep, since 3am and I are getting way too intimate, these days.
So far, it seems to be working. Whether I continue once I re-establish my internal clock remains to be seen, but until then....I'll see you on the Greenway?
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