Running on Empty

Alright. I need to talk to you guys about exercise. It hurts me bad. The thing with exercise is the mental game is just as horrible as the physical anguish. Allll day I sit in my cubicle and my brain casts around for things that could occupy my time between 5:05 when I walk into my apartment and 5:45 when my husband and baby walk into my apartment. I know there's a good solid 40 minutes there which would be perfectly utilized by pounding the pavement in some form of physical exertion. But....oh but shouldn't I alphabetize Jordan's expansive library that she might find the book she needs more easily? or perhaps I could call the President and discuss with him the secession of Texas? how about recounting all the times I wore my older brother's button-up shirts when I was homeschooled? All preferable options to running.

But then there's my conscience. She's sleek and fit. She looks like this

She talks a good game about how much better I'll feel after a run; how it only takes a few runs to get into the swing of exercising; how attainable a perfect body is. She's obnoxious.

Then my running self looks like this

and feels like this.

And she's pretty persuasive too. She reminds me that there are chocolate chips in the pantry, and that I didn't skimp and get the off-brand this time. There are real Nestle's in there.

All 26 minutes of my run, my Monster running self bargains with my Aeon Flux alter ego conscience. Runner says "Ok, at this corner *huff, huff* I get to take *dry heave* a breather" and Conscience silkily reasons, "You know you've only been on a decline since you started running 95 seconds ago." They have some friendly banter while my legs carry my body reluctantly and spasmodically forward until we all reach

The Greatest Hill That Ever Was

sometimes referred to as

The Cliffs of Insanity

In reality it only takes 62 Mississippis (or 62 "one-thousands", whichever your counting preference is. Or do you not count like you're in 2nd grade anymore?) to reach the crest of The Greatest Hill That Ever Was. But it might as well be 600 Mississippis, and Alabamas for good measure. Because by the top of it my running self swears to....my running self that she'll never put her through that again. And the only way I get through the 1/4 mile that remains after the G.H.T.E.W. is to promise Running Self chocolate chips and to ignore sleek Conscience's snide remarks.

Thus the reason "exercise" leaves my body in stasis.