“You know what would be fun,” my husband asks happily early one morning as he pulls his running shoes on.
I regard him with a distrust that is only brought on by fifteen years of relational experience with questions like this. He has a look in his eyes, and I am ninety-nine percent certain that he is not going to say “going to Disneyworld,” or “hopping on a plane to an all-inclusive resort in Aruba.”
“What,” I ask half-heartedly. It is early and I haven’t had my cup of coffee.
“I think it would be fun if you would start running and we could run together as a couple,” he replies. “Like,” he adds, “a hobby.”
This feels like an insurmountable topic for 7 a.m. I respond with a grunt.
I am not a natural runner. I am not an athlete. I am utterly confused by those who think climbing walls and jumping off of platforms into a giant puddle of mud is a rational way to pass a Saturday morning. “Fun Runs” seem to be a theme in Florida. To me, “Fun Run” is an oxymoron.
But don’t get me wrong: I have tried to run.
Because I secretly envy those who can just jump out of bed at 4 a.m., go for a six mile run and dive into their day, endorphins buzzing. Like, “carpe diem,” and all that crap.
I want to be like that.
My attempt several years ago at becoming a “runner,” however, yielded a laboriously slow shuffle. Painful to behold, really. There was no glisten of sweat. There was no sheen. There were no cute running shorts that stayed in place; they creeped up painfully to become the wedgie from hell.
I am not one who exercises for the fun of it. I think either you are one of “those people” to whom it comes naturally, or you aren’t. I am in that latter group. It will always be a struggle.
Exercise is something that I MUST do, whether my heart is in it, or not. This is true particularly after the birth of my last baby six years ago. My body didn’t care too much for the pregnancy and set several important bodily functions, one being my blood pressure, completely amuck.
And you know that “bounce-back” everyone talks about? Nothing bounced back. Not after the third baby.
So the suggestion that we run together as a “hobby” didn’t fill me with boundless enthusiasm.
But it got me thinking. It is never too late, right?
My husband wants to have a hobby with me. I have two working legs, a pair of running shoes and a pudgy German Shepherd who could afford to lose a little weight, also.
So I am willing to try again.
Because according to my Pinterest feed, “Courage does not always roar. Sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day saying I will try again tomorrow.”
And that is what I will do.
© 2017 Mary Ann Magnell ALL RIGHTS RESERVED