The alternate title for this post is the early bird finds the evidence. And it begins like this:
I’ve been trying FOR A MONTH to run in the morning. Every morning I set my alarm for 7 a.m. and every morning I hit snooze for an hour. When I walk the pug in my pajamas, I stare with contempt at the svelte joggers who zip past in a blur of Spandex. Damn perfect in their Under Armour and Nikes, damn focused, listening to their iPods, pounding the pavement in the early morning fog.
I’m so desperate to develop a morning run habit that I’ve asked Ro to text message me at 7:30 for motivation.
Well, Wednesday morning I did it all on my own and because I was so proud of this feat, I ate two chocolate truffles for lunch.
I started the jog at a good clip. Rounded the block near the park by my house. Ran full throttle up Coffee Pot Boulevard –– full throttle because how could I not run full throttle up a street named Coffee Pot Boulevard? At a half-a-mile in my legs turned to Jell-O and my heart turned to applesauce. I actually hate running. While I’m fast and for five years played forward on my high school soccer team, I have knock-knees and flailing arms. When I run I look like Olive Oyl. I look like a blonde Olive Oyl.