I’ve decided to write about my running.
About two months ago, I looked at myself in the mirror and I sort of felt gross. When you turn thirty, your body slows down. The slow down happens quickly, however. All of a sudden, you have a gut, and it isn’t going anywhere. Granted, it was my fault when it first happened. I went out every night of the week and ate whatever I wanted. When I moved to DC, the weight left because I was constantly stressed out, I didn’t eat anything and I stopped drinking. More recently, those ten or so pounds have crept back on. I’m happier. And when you’re happy, you get fat. And, you know, I’m getting older. Having a heart attack doesn’t seem attractive, and I’m too young still to just give up and let this monster of a belly stay there. A work out regimen was in order.
My first thought was a gym, but then, almost instantaneously, I was against it. I am not a gym person. I don’t even like people, and I have no desire to sweat in a room full of them. Their fancy clothes and their gym bags and their stupid fancy shoes. The people who join gyms are the same people who want to talk about sports with you, or have a real, solid need to “Get Crazy” over the weekend. If I sweat around them, I might catch whatever weird virus that makes them watch “Jersey Shore” and talk about the proper 401K to put your money into. I don’t like those people.
I was worried about jogging, through, because of my Asthma. I knew, if I wanted to get healthier, I was going to have to get into shape. But the process, the getting into shape, it wouldn’t be a pretty picture. Tack onto that the almost impossible feat of looking cool as you jog and I had zero motivation to start running again.
But I did it anyway.
Part of being an adult is doing things you really, really don’t feel like doing. It is a strange moment, if you think about it. Putting on the shoes and tying them and stretching and then running down the block. Why am I doing this? I know why I’m doing this. I’m doing this because I have to do this. Just like when I go to meetings or when I pay bills or when I do all the other hundred things we all do on a daily basis. We do these things, not because they are fun or because they are even the least bit enjoyable. We do these things because we have to do them. That is the difference between an adult and a child. And it always amazes me how many adult children there are.
The worst part about the whole mess, the losing weight, the swore legs, the horrible pain in the sides, is because running isn’t a pleasurable experience. It’s horrible. Even when your body pumps out endorphins and you confuse the pain for pleasure and the jog suddenly doesn’t feel bad, it is a horrible position, a pure bad fact, that we have to take care of our bodies. We have to TAKE CARE of it. Our bodies aren’t our bodies. They hang over us like clothes. I have a gut. My gut is a piece of me that isn’t a part of me. We say, I am smart. We don’t say, or we shouldn’t say, I have smarts. I am intelligent, not, I have intelligence. We own our positives. But our negatives hang on us, like a wet suit after a rain storm. Like mud after you fall in mud. I am covered in mud, not I am mud. I love words and how I use them is important. I’m not saying I’m fat anymore. I’m not owning this gut. It’s leaving. Whether it likes it or not, I’m going to get rid of the fucking thing so I don’t have to look at it in the mirror everyday.
This will be a process. Like learning how to type or learning how to teach, learning how to be rid of the parts of me I dislike will take time. And I’m not talking just the physical. Changing, becoming more than you are, is an ongoing process. But knowing is half the battle, right? I saw that on a television show once.