My 16 year-old self would be in shock to hear that I crave working out and might even be sporting a new addiction for it. She would cry blasphemy and proclaim that I had lost my marbles. There’s no way I could actually enjoy working out, yet here I stand proudly in my Nikes.
I’ve decided to become a runner. I’ve been thinking on it for the last couple of months and it’s come to the point where I cannot keep doing the same exercise routine I’ve been failing to commit to since last fall. It’s been just over a week now since I announced my decision to my close friends.
“I’m going to be a runner. I’ve decided.”
And for once in my life I know there’s nothing that can stop me from obtaining this goal. There are no requirements to meet, no forms to fill out or payments to make. I can just do it. On my own time, in my own way.
For once running isn’t a negative. I’m not running away from responsibility, commitment, or the unknown. I’m running. Toward a goal.
But why running? I’ve pretty much convinced myself over the years that I cannot run. I have nightmares that my legs simply won’t move when I need them to the most. Logically, running is the easiest form of exercise I could choose to dominate. I lack the basic necessities to do any legitimate sports. I’ve accepted that my hand-eye coordination is quite poor & if a ball is involved in the slightest I dart in the opposite direction of its trajectory.
With running I don’t need any equipment or a gym. Easy.
Just shoes, water, and determination.
And I’ve got that. Easy.
Does it kick my butt every day I do it? Absolutely.
And I’ve never felt better.