Confessions: Part One

So I’ve decided that it’s was time for me to do a little series of posts.  I’ve thought about it for a while, but I felt like I was stealing from this blog.  Then I decided that I could always claim the “imitation is the highest form of flattery” bit and I’d be good.  So without further adieu…my confessions.

Confession:  I have always wanted to be a runner.

Yes, you read that right.

In theory, running seems to be happy and wonderful and exhausting but ultimately fulfilling.  I like the idea of my hair blowing in the wind.  The mundane sound of my feet rhythmically slapping the ground drowning out the constant chaos in my head.  The burn.  Running a marathon.  Crossing the finish line.  Feeling like I actually accomplished something.  Pushed myself beyond what I thought my limits were.

That all sounds great and all…but see, I know myself.  I know that when I “run” I look dyskinetic.  I also know that when I “run” the wind doesn’t blow my hair behind me like a kite tail, it blows tiny strands of hair in my eyes and mouth.  I know that when I “run” that slapping sound is more likely to be my boobs assaulting my fat roll.  And I don’t enjoy that so much.  So I guess I’ll just have to resort to my old standard: reading a cheesy chick lit book in which the heroine is a young graduate student who has fallen in love with her married English literature professor who promised that he was going to leave his wife, but then she saw them looking like a smug and happy couple at the Renaissance festival and realized that it’s she who is a fool, not the wife, and so said heroine decides to go for a nice, long run to clear her mind.  During the run…wait.  I could totally write one of those books…but this post is about running.  Or my lack thereof.  Oh, well…