My sister and I have decided we’re going to run in this 7-mile race called the Bix next summer. It seems like a good bonding experience and just an all-round grownup thing to say you’re flying to Iowa for a race. We tried to talk my brother into it too. Me: We could all cross the finish line together, Kevin! All three (redacted) kids. It’s a metaphor, stupid.
Him: I will make a poster and cheer you on.
So anyway, two out of three of us are in. I mostly agreed to do it because July is in the theoretical future, like a nuclear holocaust or the Red Sox winning another world series. (What? Come and get me.)
My sister bought a marathon-training book and is charting her progress in a sensible manner. I’m continuing to let New York Sports Club take money out of my account and hoping for the best. I also spend as much time as possible stretching on the mats, hoping people think, “Wow, that girl must really be a serious runner!” instead of, “Boy, that girl really knows how to postpone doing any actual running.”
I tend to run in the afternoon, away from as many prying eyes as possible. (See previous running entry.) It also ties in well with getting my Oprah on, as long as she’s giving stuff away and not talking about something lame-o like childhood diabetes or overcoming racism.
The other part of my plan is that post running I get away from the vicinity of my gym, which is really more for their benefit than mine. They have a table set up outside to recuit new members, and when I exercise, all pigment drains from my face and gets redistributed in a color I like to call “blotch.”
Between that, the struggle for air, the dripping hair and posture of someone needing orthopedic surgery, I think I’m the worst possible poster child for exercise being a fun and satisfying pastime.
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