I am not, nor will I ever be, a runner. I will run to the store, I will run out of cookies, but I will never, ever, ever put my feet to pavement at a speed faster than dead-snail-walk*.
Then why, why oh why, did I participate in a 5k last weekend? Why did I get up at the crack of dawn (hell, before dawn), force my feet into sneakers and go 3.1 miles in 30 degree weather? I can think of a number of reasons, but the only one that makes sense is that I am batshit crazy.
Now, mind you, I didn’t actually run the course, I walked/jogged it (and was outpaced by a 70-something old lady!). I moved fast enough to avoid being at the end of line, but that’s it. I jogged when I felt like it, gasped for air when no one was around, and went through every song in my Boppy Spotify playlist, all 200-something songs. What? I have the attention span of a hummingbird.
My friend JB joined me that fateful morning, in fact, she was the one who sent me the info on the 5k. She’s just as crazy as me, crazier, in fact! She was a timed runner, and went on to run another race that afternoon! In green tights and a black tutu, no less.
Me immediately after the race: omg-my-feet-hurt-but-I-did-it!
Me that afternoon: I’m-never-walking-again
Me the next day: dead-dead-dead-dead
Me on Monday: that-wasn’t-so-bad-now-it’s-bragging-time!
So now I’m planning my next escapade, something Christy-from-2-years-ago would never have considered. I’ve already added tanning, size 4 jeans and a hockey game! Any suggestions on what I should try next?
*Unless it’s the zombie apocalypse or a buy-one-get-twelve-free cookie sale at Otis Spunkmeyer.