So I guess I'm starting to run now. For the love of God.
And really? Run is probably a strong word for what I actually get out there and do. In order to run it's probably necessary that one goes faster than an arthritic turtle. My good friend Dawn uses the word "wog", a mixture of walking and jogging, and that's probably way more appropriate for me.
The point is, I'm trying.
So I always take the Boy Child with me when I'm doing any type of outdoor exercise. He's motivating (which he thinks means he talks a lot...and he does that as well) and also if I fall and injure myself, as I am prone to do in every day life even when there is no exercise involved, he's old enough to call 9-11 and give pretty detailed instructions as to our location. I put a lot of burdens on that kid, but he handles them all pretty well.
We're running. Or wogging or whatever.
Or rather, I'm wogging. He's leaping about, jumping over puddles wider than my considerable ass. He's saying things like, "I've drastically slowed my pace so you and I can run together mom!" He's saying, "Watch this!" and then running around the track so fast that he practically laps me. He thoughtfully and helpfully says, "Ma! Your face is red! Are you having a heart attack?"
I'm not. I feel like it sometimes. But I'm not.
My knees are sore, but my heart is warm.
I'm learning to run.
I suppose there is some metaphor for life in there somewhere, but frankly? I'm to tired to even be bothered with finding it.