I have a lot to say today. I’m sorry. But it is my blog and I can blog all I wanna J
There are people made for running. I’m not one of them. I’m made for hugging—big, squishy hugs. Happy, jolly hugs. That’s me.
I find no joy in running. I find I have less joy after I run actually. I think my lack of joy comes from the fact that running is hard. I knew it would be, but I didn’t think it would be this difficult. Goodness, I can’t even run a half a mile. It’s sad and depressing. I putter out quite quickly. I give into the pain and the inability to breath. It overcomes me. I’m a wimp.
This was only my third time running. Did I expect to be a sprinter right off the bat—fire the starting pistol and zip, there I go? No, I did not. But I hoped I would do better than I am. My mind is willing. My body is not. It’s slightly embarrassing.
“You’re doing great!” my husband says as he jogs past me on the running course--for the second time. He has not gone for a run in several weeks. He didn’t even warm up by walking a little. He took off in a full jog like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. He makes it look easy. He makes it look fun. For the beginner, it’s not. It’s slow going—grandma slow. (Actually, there are some grandma’s out there that are faster than I am and have more endurance as well. Kudos to the grandmas).
I’m going to pick a mark on the trail and run to it. The next time I will pick a mark a little farther than that one and run to it. The next time a little farther, and the time after that even a little farther.
I would love to be able to run a mile by the end of the month. A lofty goal at best.
There are people made for running. I’m not one of them. I’m made for hugging—big, squishy hugs. Happy, jolly hugs. That’s me.
I find no joy in running. I find I have less joy after I run actually. I think my lack of joy comes from the fact that running is hard. I knew it would be, but I didn’t think it would be this difficult. Goodness, I can’t even run a half a mile. It’s sad and depressing. I putter out quite quickly. I give into the pain and the inability to breath. It overcomes me. I’m a wimp.
This was only my third time running. Did I expect to be a sprinter right off the bat—fire the starting pistol and zip, there I go? No, I did not. But I hoped I would do better than I am. My mind is willing. My body is not. It’s slightly embarrassing.
“You’re doing great!” my husband says as he jogs past me on the running course--for the second time. He has not gone for a run in several weeks. He didn’t even warm up by walking a little. He took off in a full jog like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. He makes it look easy. He makes it look fun. For the beginner, it’s not. It’s slow going—grandma slow. (Actually, there are some grandma’s out there that are faster than I am and have more endurance as well. Kudos to the grandmas).
I’m going to pick a mark on the trail and run to it. The next time I will pick a mark a little farther than that one and run to it. The next time a little farther, and the time after that even a little farther.
I would love to be able to run a mile by the end of the month. A lofty goal at best.
