I like to pout.
I KNOW. Shocking, right? (Shut up, Mom) (and The Fiance) (Dad, too).
So, this past weekend, when I couldn't run more than two miles, when it was recommended (by my trusty "training plan") that I run five, I pouted a little. Maybe I kicked. Screamed. On the inside, of course. I swore to myself that I was, by far, the worst runner ever placed inside a pair of running shoes. FIVE MILES. Come on, lazy, you can run five miles! God!
But, no. I couldn't. My body, which was feeling obnoxiously lazy and un-energetic, could not push itself one more step. It was all, "Hey! Look at me! I was put on this earth to be both oddly-shaped and bad at running! Wheee!" (I'm not kidding about the oddly-shaped part. I blame my hips. Whatever).
Anyway, so, I gave up. I can't run five miles. Nope. Won't do it. I refuse. Screw running, screw the half marathon, Lord, I hate you, etc., etc. I'm mildly dramatic.
So tonight, after work, it was time for another run.
Ugh. Scoff. Stomps feet.
I tied my shoes. Checked my email. Put on my jacket. Checked my email, again. Turned on my iPod. Checked my email. (Can you tell I was stalling?) After about 18 minutes of this half-get-dressed, half-totally-pretend-I-don't-have-to-run routine, I got out the door.
And it was glorious! And I even ran an extra mile, making it a four-mile run. And I felt fabulous. And now I'm all happy, and whatever, like I always am when I get my way. Also, I apologized to my body for calling it (oddly-shaped) lazy, apologized to my shoes for threatening to throw them down the sewer, and apologized to The Lord for, you know, that whole part where I said I hated him, and whatever. We're on good terms now, don't you worry.
So, hooray. I can run!