Weekend Running is the worst. First, you wake up and want pancakes. I don't want to run. I want flapjacks. I want boysenberry syrup and room temp butter. I want eggs with cheese, sausage and bacon. I want hash browns and I want HGTV, David Bromstad in a tank top putting a teal sheen on crown molding in HD and surround sound. I want Sirius Spa radio and I want my laundry done.
My breath on Saturday usually had a hint of last night's Jack until more recently, and that made me want coffee before those pancakes and a douche or a colonic to clear myself of all the heavy, fruity, sterile liquid I consumed to unleash my horniness onto the masses last night. That makes it hard to tie my shoes, because when I sit down to lace my sneakers, I just wanted to go back to sleep, especially since I just made my bed.
You start running, and it's 4:30 PM. It's taken all day to digest the iHop, reorganize your shelves, paint or draw, just generally detoxify the nasty things you did last night, the angst of what you didn't accomplish Monday thru Friday, and put your Mom's voice away for long enough to say, "I can do more than two things at once." You load that new Carrie Underwood onto the Nano, you potty the dogs, and you set off.
After 55 minutes you realize something amazing. All the enemas in the world don't make you feel as clean as knowing you accomplished the weekly run, the thing you've been putting off since last Sunday--that you've finally done tonight. You deserve a reward.
Thank Jose, it's margarita night at Chevy's!
You ought to read the post I wrote about the Boot Camp class I did at my gym this morning--all because the club's HOT gym manager (seriously, his butt makes me whimper) smiled at me and said, "Come on, you should come to the class."
ReplyDeleteCongrats on the run. I did mine, too, after Boot Camp, and feel very proud of myself.