Yesterday was the first time I ran or exercised in a very long time.
My husband actually agreed to accompany me on my run; he usually says no because I run too slowly. In fact, my pace is so slow that my 10-pound maltese has no problem keeping up with me. He trots.
In junior high, when we were all required to take P. E., Fridays were designated as our “mile-run” days. It was the only period in my life when I despised Fridays. Our P. E. uniforms didn’t make the runs any easier; I’m convinced that a sadist in the department decided to order the thickest darkest shirts just to be certain that we would all suffer.
I nearly died every Friday for those two years. My only goals were to 1) finish the mile and 2) not be last. I barely accomplished both.
“Push Amy, push! C’MON!” My husband’s inner-coach was beginning to surface. And all of the reasons why I never pursued sports in high school came screaming back at me.
I hate running.