Yesterday, my older sister completed a half marathon. I am incredibly proud of her and in deep admiration of her healthy choices and commitment to physical fitness.
(She’s the one in light blue–isn’t she lovely?)
Every day, it seems, pictures are cropping up in my Facebook newsfeed about marathons completed, Tough Mudders conquered, miles logged on a daily jog, etc.
Running seems to be the it thing these days—that thing that all the cool people do… The thing that all the healthy people do.
And I want to be motivated enough to run. Really, I do. But it seems like the only running I ever do is a) from my problems or b) in the opposite direction of spiders. (And that is generally a short-lived effort at best).
Running (Nay—athleticism in general!) is just not my thing. But I feel excessively guilty about this. (Don’t ALL single twenty-something’s have a gym membership?) I briefly considered naming my bathroom Jim. That way, instead of going to the John first thing every morning, I could say I go to the Jim.
But semantics aside, I lack the motivation to turn thinking about wanting to run into actually—you know—running.
But different strokes for different folks, right? Some people are the spinach and kale type while others are more the pizza and ice cream type. I had always classified myself as the pizza and ice cream type until today.
Alas, this morning, I realized that even ICE CREAM, when left out for too long, runs more than I do.
It might be time to re-evaluate my life decisions.
Until then, If you ever see me running, you should probably start running, too, because chances are, something scary is chasing me.