"So, that whole 'six weeks of writing* in the mornings instead of running' worked out well", she said, unlacing her sneakers after a six mile morning run.
It lasted nine days.
During that time I was doing some evening runs here, and some 30-Day Shred workouts there, and slamming back pizza slices like shots of tequila, and horking down Hershey Kisses (love those chocolatey little bastards) and other Valentine's affiliated items. The more slack my workouts, the more I want to curl up inside a tin of Christie Cookies.
I can't not run.
I mean, I can not run. It's quite easy, actually. Frighteningly easy. Just put one foot not in front of the other. What's difficult is buttoning my pants. And watching my thighs explode like two tins of Jiffy Pop. And feeling the life force draining from my body with every passing day (BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, beep, beep, beeeeep.)
I do this every winter. Convince myself that I should just take it easy. Not push so hard. Focus on spending time with the boys and doing more of what I love. What I fail to remember is that one of the things I love is "not wanting to hurl my bloated body into oncoming traffic".
Linda at Sundry Mourning captures this cycle so perfectly in her post, Infinite Loop. (If you aren't reading her blog, you must. Though I think everyone already is.)
So. I've been lacing up at 5:30 am again. And the difference I feel emotionally, even physically, in less than a week is pretty profound.
Running works. It just does.
That's why I started, and God knows why I ever stop.
*As for the writing, this post was cobbled together at lunchtimes and bedtimes and red lights, and that's just going to have to work for now.