(Or: My 16 inch journey from my couch to the front door that might as well have been from the Shire to Mordor.)
Ugh.
I needed to start running again. It had become the bane of my existence. It is quite possibly the best and easiest exercise anyone can do and yet I hate it. All you have to do is travel from point A to point B quicker than you normally would. Sometimes you don’t even need to go to a point B, just leave and return to point A. Point A is point B.
And yet I can’t do it.
I put on the weird sweatpants I borrowed two years ago from my then roommate Ann. It’s the only pair of sweatpants I own and it has a picture of a wiener dog with the phrase “Mine’s Bigger” on the leg. I also put on my “work out” shirt, A plain white tee with a wolf head emblazoned across the chest that my girlfriend’s mom airbrushed on it.
Yes, those things exist.
As I got dressed, my body what was happening and tried everything in its power to stop me. My leg started to hurt, my brain forgot where I put my socks, Sportsnight was suddenly available on Netflicks Instant. The peanut butter cookies from the night before had somehow built a hammock in the living room and were marinating themselves in cold milk in an overtly sexual way.
As I sat and watched the walk and talk dialogue of Aaron Sorkin I feigned stretching. I had made the mistake of charging my iPod the week before, when I first tried to start running again. I did my best to sabotage it then when I filled my running playlist with This American Life and the audio book for the novelization of the Twilight movie (as read by Stephen Wright.)
By this time the ladytron had come home and was wondering what I was doing. I told her I had downloaded the latest episode of True Blood for her enjoyment. She squealed with delight, threw her arms around me and told me I “was the greatest boyfriend in the whole wide world.” Little did she know it was just further motivation for me to get the hell out of the house. Seriously, every chick now thinks bloody sex is all hot and awesome but the last time I suggested it I was given a disapproving look and told “just to wait a few more days.”
Bridget tried to reassure me by saying I would hit my runners high. I told her I was starting cold turkey again and it would be at least a week before I hit a runner’s high. This first run was going to be something different.
“What?” She asked.
“Punishment.” I solemnly said as I closed the door and started running.
After twenty minutes of running and coughing up what Web MD would later identify as bile I start the final stretch of my run. A quarter mile up a 30 degree incline and then down the other side to my apartment. It was my Everest. Luckily Roll Away Your Stone by Mumford and Sons came on my ipod. It is the quintiscential running song juast above Hearts on fire from Rocky IV. I don’t care if you don’t like Mumford and Sons, the song is perfect. BAH! What did I just say? I don’t care. Fast forward to 2:30 and go sprint up a mountain.
Once I got home I sat on the floor drenched in sweat while Bridget was glued to the latter half of True Blood. I got back just in time to see some red headed vampire banging some dude in the back of a truck. It was some of the wittiest and clever writing I had ever seen in a prime time show. Then the blonde lead chick screamed “NOOOOoooo….”
I went and took a shower.
Are you motivated to get out there, change your life, kick some ass, take some names, throw the names out and kick some more ass? No? Good me neither, check out monkeywithamonocle’s other posts Weird Al’s Polka Music Maps The Decline Of Pop Music and Music Reviews Are Dumb: A Music Review
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