Lately, I’ve been trying to get my run on, and I don’t mean sentence (but, I’ve been known to do that too). I’m talking, feet hitting the pavement, jogging.
verbgerund or present participle: jogging
- 1.run at a steady gentle pace, especially on a regular basis as a form of physical exercise.“he began to jog along the road”
Okay, so now that we are aware of the meaning of jogging, let’s break it down. It says up there ^, to run at a steady, gentle pace.
What. The. Fuck. GENTLE? Yeah, that’s not really how I do it. I’m much more Phoebe-esque with my jogging.
If my arms aren’t thrashing about, then how do I know my Fitbit is counting each of my painful, chest-convulsing, lung burning steps? I’m not what you’d call the Happy Jogger. I look nothing like the ridiculously photogenic guy while running my way to improved fitness.
My face has a much more pained expression, one that seems to have scared off many a young child, as I pass by with heavy breaths and bear like groans. Look, kid, I’m not chasing you, I am merely trying to keep up with your kindergarten class holding hands while crossing the street.
Which brings up another point in the not so fascinating world of running for the pure enjoyment of it. Who are these joggers that keep on jogging on the spot while the light is red? What are you trying to prove? I take this time for a much-needed arm on the hip, holy shit are my lungs the size of an infant’s, gasp for air. You won’t see me happily jogging on the spot, checking my wrist to see if I’m burning the right amount of calories. No sir, I will be leaning my full weight on the street post, looking up at the sky, wondering why the hell I left the comfort of my home in the first place.
Nevertheless, once the light finally changes, with a jiggle that once was muscle, I am off. Often, I will look back to see how far I’ve made it, and notice, I am only a block from my house. Oh good, only five more miles to go. Usually, this is when I start thinking to myself, go back, go back, there are cupcakes at home, and those make you feel better about yourself too.
Ordinarily, about halfway through my jog, I am met with a burning pain in my hips, something I like to call, did you forget you are forty-three idiot. It’s not so much a burn as a seizing of all the muscles I use mainly for Facebooking while sitting on my ass. And although I feel the burn, at that point I can’t stop, because often I’ve passed two ladies happily walking their dogs and believe they will judge me for landing harshly on my knees while screaming out, OH GOD WHY, why are you doing this! Or at least, it’s the scenario I play in my head.
As I finish my meticulously mapped out running route and start my way back to my couch and all things less painful than the bends which are now wreaking havoc on my insides. There often is a tiny taste of vomit pushing its way up my throat and into my mouth, and I am sweating more profusely than Kristin Wigg in Bridesmaids when her character had food poisoning.
But I keep on keepin’ on because let’s be honest these rolls around my stomach aren’t going just to get up and leave. Trust me, I’ve tried willing them away, apparently talking to your fat is similar to talking to your plants, it helps them grow.
When I start to see the light at the end of my jogging tunnel, and the reaches of home draw close, this is the only time I experience the highly overrated, but often talked about ‘runner’s high’. When I say runners high, I am confident it is nothing like what actual athletes feel. My high is more so a euphoria of finally being done with this bullshit run, and I can go home and eat that cupcake.
This is how I run, and tomorrow I will do it all over again.