I've always considered myself a runner. Even when I go embarrassingly long stretches between runs.
Tonight I went on my first run in a really long time.
Oh my heavens, it was miserable.
My lungs burned, my ribs ached, my legs throbbed. I hurt in places I've never hurt before. Something about having a watermelon-sized human being in my uterus eight months ago must have moved some stuff around. Or something.
And I loved every second of it.
Running has always been a good release for me. I started running in middle school after I beat one of the fittest guys in school in a PE run of the mile. Later, when I was bullied, it became a way to escape the crappiness that was junior high.
Of course the mean girls tried to take that away from me too, but luckily for me they were kind of dumb. Back in the diz-ay, I was really skinny. Like woah. I think my siblings described me as "a toothpick with a crash helmet on." So the mean girls used to tell everyone that I was anorexic and bulimic (yes, both) and the only reason I did so well during races was because the wind would push me around the track. Sound theory, if it wasn't for the crucial little fact that tracks are ROUND.
I'll let you work out the physics of it all on your own.
In any case, I'm running again now. Just in time too, cause Lewis' school is hosting a 5k fun run next week.