(First of all, I’m going to try my hand at everyday blogging. See if short, constant posts are easier to keep up with than the long ones. We’ll see. Maybe if you people started leaving me comments I would be more inspired…)

I don’t know what it is about running, but I continued to get walloped by the age old adage (as here applied to running), “absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Without fail, my mind romanticizes “the run.” I begin to imagine popping up like a daisy at 6AM, lacing up my sneakers and bounding out my front door– light and springy like a wood nymph– and making my way along trails and paths. What actually happens is that I rarely wake up, mostly because the thought of jogging first thing in the morning makes me want to off myself, and if I actually do get out of bed–which is a mighty rare occurrence– I end up dragging my limp ass around the apartment, checking work emails to make sure there aren’t any emergencies that require me not going for that run.

This morning was super special. Not only did I get out of bed and manage to put on my running clothes, but I forwent on the usual walk to the Esplanade. As if some alien of morning run bliss had taken over my body, I opened my front door and immediately began running. The blast of cool spring air made it feel all right and official and by the time I got to the corner I was looking at strangers in their cars with my best “that’s right, bitches, I’m a runner” look.

The look that they were giving back hinted to the fact that they knew my face was beet red after jogging for less than a half block.

I generally make it about a half mile before I start to get tired. At about the mile marker I feel sorry for myself, and I can usually make it about a mile and a quarter before the anger sets in. Real runners aren’t familiar with the anger, but for closet overachievers such as myself, it’s an all-to-common emotion that overwhelms me when I realized that whatever it is I want, I’ll have to actually work for. What. the. fuck?

This morning I don’t even think I made it a mile and a quarter before the rage. Some chick with a hippo caboose passed me on the ramp to the Mass Ave bridge and I think my brain exploded. I was playing that game where you analyze why someone else (who likely works harder than you) is having an easier go at something. I finally decided that she was a runner who had triplets yesterday or the day before. It was the only way to explain how her speed and weight were so inconsistent…

I plowed through the remainder of my jog (angry, sweaty, and thirsty) and then got ready for work. It’s been about eight hours since I completed the run and I’m still hung up on how miserable it was, so you can imagine how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s jaunt.

I hate running.