Its 5:55 a.m. and I am outside on a brisk September morning jogging through the fog. If there is anywhere in the world I could be right now, this would not be it. The thing is, I am not a morning person. Just ask my husband, Ken. If I had my way, no day would start before 9:00 a.m. I would be gently and slowly awaken by a soft song whispering on the radio, a cool breeze brushing through the house and the smell of bacon popping on the stove. I would be served a heaping platter of scrambled eggs and orange juice (with said bacon) and then adjourn for a refreshing warm shower. Finally, after sipping on a couple of cups of hot coffee, I would be ready to start the work day – no earlier than 10:30.
But alas, my days of sleeping late and pampering my way through the pre-noon hours are long behind me. There are two reasons. First, I have a job. Second, I have three kids. So even on the weekends, a late morning sleeping in does not exceed 7:30. When the sun rises, I greedily cherish every precious moment I can capture in bed- curled up tight under my comforter. And the Good Lord help anyone who interferes.
For me to get out of bed in the morning requires an act of God, an edict from Congress or multiple presses of the “snooze” button. I literally roll out of bed and plod through the morning until I can inject enough liquid energy (a.k.a. coffee) to drown a shark. Until then, its best to stay out of my way. That’s why it is so hard for me to force myself out of bed at 5:45 each morning to exercise.
Exercise and I are not friends. We had a very nasty break up a few years ago over a pulled quad. Its been a strained relationship ever since. And when it comes to exercise, the only thing I despise more is running. Unlike my almost two year old who prefers running to any bipedal means of transportation, it does not come naturally to me. The out of breath huffing and puffing makes me feel like a giant grisly bear on a hot August day.
Yet here I am, lumbering through the neighborhood at what one might loosely describe as a jog. Why?... The answer is simple. I have lost my mind. And in the process, I have confused night with day and awake with asleep. And I have somehow convinced myself that sweating out half the liquid in my body and raising my pulse will make me “feel better.” Ha. Feel Better! What would really make me feel better is a Cinnabon and a Lazy Boy. Still, I force myself to go on pattering up and down the streets in a vain attempt to seek out my once respectful sanity.
The route I follow is flat, short and straight. When I am about three quarters done another runner strides towards me. She is young, tall and thin. While she glides like a gazelle, I trudge like a turtle. She is wearing a cropped pink tank that highlights her shinney flat stomach. I pull my shabby red sweat shirt down in hopes that it will cover as much of me as possible. She is smooth and lean like a Great Dane. My stubby legs make me more like a Basset Hound. She smiles, flips her hair and gives me a cheery “Good morning” as we pass. I hate her.
Despite all, I keep moving. I finish my chore and head back home. I can hear my coffee pot sweetly calling my name. As I rest my weary bones and wipe my tired brow, three year old Emily wanders downstairs to interrupt the morning solitude. “What did you do Mommy?” She inquires. “I was running.” “Can I run with you?” she beams. I smile back. Suddenly I remember why I am doing this.
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