Okay. Let me be clear. I am not a runner. I am certainly not an exercise addict, and if the truth be told, I not only don't particularly like exercise, but I am also a bit offended how red-faced and sweaty I get when doing a leisurely 5K workout. However, after packing my out-of-shape self into the car one day, I had a light-bulb moment while waiting for the light to change on Great Neck Road. Five absolutely gorgeous 30-somethings were pausing at the crosswalk, pausing from a grueling run, hands on knees, red-faced, glistening bodies, laughing at one another and looking exactly like they were the stars in a commercial for Nikes, or Monster energy, or I don't know, that Belgian ice cream on a stick. Barely able to breathe in my jeans, I think, Wow...I wish I was them. The girl them, not the guy them. The time has come for me to commit to a life change and it won't be anytime in the near future that *I* will be running further than from the pool to the house to refill my martini. Or wine. Or whatever it is that is my most favorite adult beverage this week.
me: I have never seen a fat runner. I am going to start using the treadmill.
Steve: You never see a fat runner because they are too fat to run.
me: Good point. I will walk on the treadmill. for one hour. everyday.
That was two weeks ago and I have found that one can do a lot of thinking when I have dedicated a full sixty minutes where nothing else--the phone, the dinner, the laundry, the dogs, the family, the computer, the Facebook friends--will interrupt me.
I have found the treadmill the perfect place to sing, to read, the ponder, to solve and resolve, and when needed, to even cry. Sorta like therapy with the added benefit that I will soon be back in my skinny jeans.
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