Yesterday after I finished writing I went for a run.
Yeah, I RAN. It was pathetically small in the scope of all the runs that have ever been run by anyone in the history of ever, (I think it was a total of 15 minutes actual running time), but it’s a start.
Here’s the deal: I hate running. I’ll never pretend otherwise. Every second of every moment that my feet are hitting that pavement in my trademark awkward, unnatural rythym I despise myself for not being at home reading a book. I curse the gods above and my body and each and every other runner that I pass with their stupid little running outfits and matching reflective jackets and idiotic water belts.
I don’t buy into the fancy gear. I don’t expect that this phase will last long enough, so I run in leggings and my “I heart BJ” shirt. (BEIJING! You’re disgusting)
Despite the constant seething hatred I feel while engaging in this particular activity, I’ve run off and on since I was in High School (where the crowning glory of my running achievement was coming second in a 1500 metre run, where I used the “slow and steady” method to such great effect that my mum said she wasn’t sure I was even in the same race at some points. But it paid off, MOM!) and the reason I’ve usually chosen running because as much as I loathe it, I loathe team sports even more.
I have many good qualities, but athleticism, hand-eye coordination and a competitive nature are not among them. In any team sport it’s a given that I will be the slowest, least coordinated, and overall worst player. I hate that feeling, the half-hearted encouragements from teammates while they internally curse your ineptitude, the sinking feeling as you miss a goal or flub a pass- NO THANK YOU. I’m getting itchy just thinking about it.
When I graduated High School I vowed I would never play a team sport again so help me god and since then I have honoured this solemn vow by gravitating towards yoga, then kickboxing, then running, then yoga, then nothing, then walking.
And here we are. At this point I feel like everyone in the world is probably in better shape than I am, and the problem is that I can not find ANY motivation to exercise.
I’m skinny, I’ve always been skinny and I will probably always be skinny, so I don’t need to exercise to lose weight (before you start hating me, please note that I’m also, as my Nephrologist describes me, “skinny-girl fat”, which is where my BMI declares me underweight but my muscle-to-fat ratio declares me overweight, because my entire body mass is comprised of two things: fat and bone. No muscle. But, I mean, who needs muscle tone, AMIRITE? Hahahaha oh god help me please)
Despite being skinny-girl fat, I still look just plain ole skinny to the untrained eye, so I can’t use vanity as a motivator. I genuinely hate all forms of physical activity, so I can’t hide exercise within a fun game.
My kidney disorders depletes so much of my energy that at times, daily activities like ooohh, showering, and doing laundry are exhausting enough as it is, the idea of trying to muster up some extra energy to go run around the block seems ridiculous. And because of my magnesium deficiency, it’s pretty normal for every muscle in my body to constantly ache, so times when I actually use my muscles (like yesterday and that puny little 15 minutes) they feel even worse than usual afterwards (I am told that there’s a new trend called “stretching”… has anyone heard about this?)
So basically what I am saying is that I have a whole buttload of reasons/excuses why I don’t exercise, but lately I’ve been thinking, this can’t be healthy right? I mean I go for long dog walks every day but at some point shouldn’t I be sweating? Shouldn’t I be “feeling the burn” or getting out of breath or some shit, whatever you crazy exercise people talk about all the time?
Guys, I can’t remember the last time I sweat.I’m not even sure I’m capable of sweating. I try to avoid it at all costs. It’s gross.
BUT despite this, the hatred and the motivation and the energy and, yes, the SWEAT, I am going to try to run. URHGHGHGHGfdghcbmnb.
We look quite the sight, Gus and I, both hauling ass down that long gravel road, tongues lolling out of our mouths, wide-eyed with exhaustion, counting down the songs, minutes, seconds until we can head home and sleep.
If you are a runner, or an exerciser, or one of my fellow skinny-girl fat people, SPEAK UP. HELP ME. What can I do to make this easier? What can I do to make me hate it less? Is there anything I can do to bribe myself or trick myself into liking it, or at least hating it less?