I hate running. I really do.
Running is supposed to be so good for you, but if it is, why is it so goddamn boring? There is no feeling I dread more than starting out a run and realizing that for the next hour of my life, I will be doing absolutely nothing but jogging: just me, my running shoes, and my (sheer?) determination. But by that point, the running shoes are already on my feet, the sports bra is already holstered, and the annoying voice of my running app is already chiding me for being too slow. (I look at my pace and it says 12:36 per mile — appalling.) It’s downright awful.
Sure, some people (claim to) like the emotional and mental exhilaration of the run, some people (claim to) like becoming one and being at peace with the world around them, and me, I’ll just spend that hour planning what I’m going to shovel into my mouth as soon as I get home. I run and I get into these long-winded debates with myself about inane subjects. I start dwelling on silly things. I look at the (slowly, oh so slowly) changing landscape and really wish I was doing anything, absolutely anything other than running.
Masochist that I am, I’ve been jogging a lot lately. Why? Mostly to blow off steam. There’s something soothing to the repetitive motion of my feet coming down on the ground. For an added adrenaline rush, I’ve also been running on the Farmington canal trail, my instincts primed to ward off any potential muggers. Running also beats wallowing and eating chocolate (although, that’s clearly not what I was thinking when I sad-ate that entire box of Royce’ in what was likely one sitting last week)
Pictured above: NOT a light snack
There’s nothing like stomping on the ground repeatedly for an hour to make all of your pent up emotion dissipate. And I guess I’m also working on burning off those days that I do end up sad-eating chocolate. Running (as outright boring as it is) is supposedly pretty good exercise. It is also the absolute simplest thing you can do aside from push-ups (and more effective than doing that one push-up that I can muster). I’ve also been told that running everyday would help my thighs get smaller. The waistband on my jeans determined that was a big fat lie. Maybe that’s why people run races, for that extra motivation, to see people cheer them on for what is honestly a pretty boring sport. I’m honestly not sure why I keep running. I haven’t run a race in a really long time. As much as I may hate it, that time to think is nice; it’s one of the few times that I’m actually alone with myself, which is honestly a little unnerving, but it’s been good for self-reflection.
In less than three hours, I’ll be awake again. I’m taking the very first train out of New Haven into New York city and then to LaGuardia Airport to board a plane to New Orleans for the weekend. One of my goals this year has been to live fearlessly. Going to New Orleans is a step towards that. I’m trying to be more spontaneous, to bring more excitement into my life, to take leaps and only regret the things I do, and not the things I don’t do.
I’ve yet to take the biggest leap, the one with the highest risk and the most pay-off, but I think I’m going to. I know I’m going to.