I threw on my shorts, yanked my top out of the dryer. Found two matching socks in my drawer, and gathered my hair into a ponytail. A look of un-excitement? It was on my face, too.
I picked up Chicken, who had taken up residence in the folds of my sweatshirt, and disconnected my iPod from its charger. Filled the water bottle, found my key card for the gym and tucked my cell phone into my pocket and my running shoes under my arm.
I was ready for the gym. Dangit.
My workout became problematic before I even laced up my shoes. The gym was unusually busy. And that girl? She's on my favorite treadmill. And the four televisions were tuned to American Idol, which is generally OK, but really, did you see the skinny guy? Because he had on a top hat and a ponytail. And what was he wearing? And did other guy honestly sing Jason Mraz? Sacred territory, guy. Sacred territory.
So there was all of that going on.
And I also had heartburn. Did I mention that? And the two Tums I chewed up and choked down this morning? They weren't helping me now. And I can't run when there is a burning in my heart. And not a good burning. Not a, "Aw, whee. I'm in love. And my heart? It's on fire," kind of burning. A bad burning. Because have you ever tried maintaining cardiovascular activity while a vile acid moves in rhythm to your footsteps up and down your esophagus? No? OK, well you should totally try it.
So, against the willpower of my very soul, I powered up the treadmill. And I set it at a speed of 5.5 because, you know what? That's faster than an 11-minute mile (ahem, barely), and that's just going to have to do right now because, in case you forgot, there is a burning in my heart. And the woman next to me? On MY favorite treadmill? She's talking to American Idol. Out loud. And it's going to be a long four miles. And although a four-mile run at an 11-minute-per-mile pace is about, oh, 44 minutes too long, it'll have to do.
But then I actually started running, at my 5.5 speed, and it was ugly. My heartburn was all, "Yes, hi. I'm still here," and my stomach was like, "Remember that chicken breast you defrosted for dinner? How about that?" And my very soul sent me a bomb threat. So I stopped. Dead in my tracks. Approximately .5 miles into my four-mile run.
I took off my iPod. Grabbed my water bottle. Unlaced my shoes. Threw on my sweatshirt. And left.
So much for that.
* Update: Because I felt guilty and a failure and a lazy pile of you-know-what, I woke up at 5 a.m., and successfully ran four miles. The end.