So, in mid-September, you may remember I wrote about the idiocy involved in fouling up my knee cap. Which, by the way, is still not 100%, but apparently I was misled by the whole 40 is the new 30 crap, so I should never expect to be 100% again.
I have decided to begin "exercising" again. Yes, I DO know how scare quotes work, but in this case, they are clearly needed. Exercising up to this point has meant going for a walk. It's a brisk walk, and 45 minutes long, but still. It's walking.
People have been doing it for tens of thousands of years. It's not a sport: no crowds fans behind ropes cheering (verrry slooooooooooowly) for their favorite walker. Jersey sales for the walker league are next to nil. Nobody wants the #8 trading card of the 2000 walking season champ. So what I'm saying is, I have resumed doing what every person in Manhattan does every day for a living.
YAY ME!
The thing is, it takes up too much of my day. Stop laughing. For real. I have important stuff to do: pick up my house, put away laundry, iron, errands, blog, drink.
That 45 minutes is a big chunk. So, I've decided what I need to do is cover the same distance, only faster. You know what they call that? Running.
Homey don't play dat.
The many, varied reasons why I do not run:
1. It hurts
2. I look like Phoebe from friends (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_0Ta_DIWuU&NR=1 ) copyright? What copyright? Thanks, NBC.
3. It hurts
4. I might fall and hurt myself
5. It makes my nose run
6. My unusual running style (see #2) means that my armpit rubs up against my sports bra and causes chafing.
BUT, I do have a treadmill, which we have had since Ethan was born. It has been used sporadically, (but during those intermittent exercise jags, I do use it regularly) which is surprising because of its readiness to use as a dry cleaning rack.
So, on my treadmill, the Phoebe style doesn't matter because there's no one to see. I can run with a soft cloth tucked into my sports bra to protect my delicate underarms, I keep a box of tissue in the cupholder, and while falling is not out of the question, the odds are reduced.
Unfortunately, I STILL cannot run. The kneecap does not abide. But I can walk a heckuvalot faster on the treadmill. So, two days ago, amidst the pouring rain, I decide to hop on that sucker. No more uneven sidewalks, rogue dogs and sprinklers for me! I'm exercising in comfort, if one can call it that.
But, it's been a while since I had my last exercise jag. The treadmill is in the playroom, so I have to unearth it. Much like a paleontological project, I can see how long it's been since my exercise regimen went extinct by the layers of crap that are on top of the treadmill:
Pool noodles (August)
S's 4K graduation certificate (May)
E's Santa hat from last year's school play (December, '09)
...it's been a while.
I put on my ipod, and press "start" and that baby hums to life. But as the belt loops around at a neck-snapping 2 miles per hour, dust flies up. Like primordial layer of actual measurable thickness kind of dust. I'm walking exceptionally slowly and sneezing. Are those FOOTPRINTS in the dust?!?
THIS is not what I had in mind.
I pause, get the dust rag out, wipe it all down and start again. I finally get the hang of it. Armpit insulators are working well, tissues staunching the snot. Everything's going just right.
In the end, I finish my 3 miles in under 40 minutes. I snap a pic of the display screen and email to CC. I know my personality, and I know that after that fiasco, I need a cheerleader.
CC promptly calls and says, all flattery and encouragement, "I can't be seeing this right! You are smokin' fast!"
I don't care that she's just being nice. I don't care that there are 100 year old tortoises who could move faster. I don't care that CC herself probably ran 8 miles in that time, in the rain, uphill both ways, that very morning. I don't care because she is my cheerleader and I need that.
Every Phoebe needs her Rachel.
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