I’m not a runner. No, let me rephrase that. I DO NOT RUN. EVER. My grade eight gym teacher begged and pleaded with me to participate in track and field – 50 metres was it and then I was done. Nope. I was sick that day.
My grade nine gym teacher threatened to fail me if I couldn’t run a kilometre in twenty minutes. I skip-hopped and speed-walked, and finished that kilometre in 19 minutes and 45 seconds, but I DIDN’T run.
I was diagnosed with exercise-induced asthma as a kid, and I used that as my crutch well through high school. Then, when I was 17, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, so I sloughed off the asthma thing and adopted FMS as my new excuse. I steadily packed on the pounds – nearly 50 pounds since I graduated high school – and avoided exercise like the plague. Attempts to make me participate in sports turned into long-running jokes (like the time my cousins made me play volleyball with them. I was laughed off the court and then received a “How-To” manual for Christmas that year.) I had a brief love-affair with Aquafit, though it did very little for me. I spent a month at the gym back in February, and loved it (to my surprise), but can no longer afford the astronomical fees.
So here I am, the beginning of June, and my extreme distaste for running seems to have slipped my mind. Either that, or I’m momentarily insane. Because here, in my hands, I hold a brand-new pair of Adidas running shoes, a mapped-out plan for the Couch to 5K program, and one entire run under my belt.
Its about time I take some control over my body. Its about time I stop using diagnoses as excuses. Its about time I lace up a pair of running shoes, and hit the pavement.
I’m headed out for a run now. If you don’t hear from me in the next couple of days, please search the sidestreets and ditches for an incoherently-mumbling fool who thought she could jog.