It's been a rough month.
Two rounds of antibiotics, Mr B in San Francisco, early meetings, Mr B in England, long workdays, Mr B working weekends, cold weather...all fine excuses for not getting my ass out of the house for any form of exercise whatsoever.
I was inspired back into action by an impossibly kind and wildly optimistic doctor. As she checked me over, she smiled. "You have a great heart rate. Nice and slow. Are you an athlete?"
I almost kissed her.
There is no way I can pass as an athlete. I am a tired and harried 40-something who runs when she can. But if my heart has dreams of athletic glory, I'm not going to let it down.
So I gave myself a pep talk. Do you want to be someone who does things, or someone who talks about doing things? What kind of 50 do you want to be? And my balls-to-the-wall favorite, Just Do It.
Then I dug out my running tights and laid out my sneakers, so that I could spring straight into them Monday morning.
While I didn't exactly spring, I did manage to crawl in the general direction of my gear. It took me five minutes to get my running tights on -- I was literally rolling around on the floor. Good god, I've only had a month off. Loser tights just can't handle it.
Eventually I staggered to my feet, sweating and swearing, encased in lycra like an overstuffed bratwurst.
And I went out the door.
That's all you have to do. Get out the door.
Because once you're out, you're glad you run. Even when it's freezing. Even when you cut it short. Even when you suck.
Sure enough, yesterday was freezing. I cut it short. And I most certainly sucked. But 2 miles is better than no miles, for a wannabee athletic heart.