I don't run. I've never been a "runner". Some people can strap on some sneakers and run from now until it thunders, but not me. On those rare occasions when I've broken into a trot, the stabbing pain in my side instantly reminds me that I'm not meant to run.
Oh, I'll run if I'm being chased, of course. I just won't run FAR. Because I can't run. And I'd rather be eaten or mauled than endure a lengthy run to escape harm.
My lovely (and dangerous) wife, on the other hand, is addicted to physical workouts. She teaches cardio kickboxing classes three days a week, attends cardio kickboxing classes two other days of the week, runs for miles and miles with her friends three mornings a week, and takes two advanced karate classes per week. In the meantime, she scurries around the house like the Energizer Bunny on speed, and hasn't slept in the ten years we've been sharing a bed... preferring to thrash around all night when she isn't dashing back and forth to the bathroom in the dark.
It's like living with a house full of weasels on crack. She's everywhere, and in motion.
One of my wife's best friends thinks running is the bomb. That's what they call things they enjoy, 'the bomb'. Don't ask me why, I just live here. Things used to be 'awesome', but now they're 'the bomb'. My wife's friend signs my wife up for lengthy organized running events, and pays her entry fee in advance for her. She knows Mrs. Squatlo won't sign up for these things, if given the opportunity to decline, so she shells out some money to make my wife feel obligated to join her in these masochistic pursuits. And once my wife has repaid the entry fee, she has a monetary interest in seeing the thing through.
"I have to, now! I've paid $25 to enter the race!"
She'll get a shirt she won't wear for partaking in today's event, a 13 mile half marathon. And blisters, probably, to go with the knee and foot trouble she's been having getting ready for this ordeal. For three weeks, she's been stewing about this 13 mile jog, dreading every minute of what she's currently off doing to herself.
I'm sitting on the back deck sipping a Bloody Mary while the coffee brews in the kitchen. I'm catching up on the high school football scores from last night, and looking over the Letters to the Editor for proof of intelligent life in the midstate area. So far, I seem to be alone, in that regard. If I need proof of the lack of intelligence in the area, all I'd need do is drive over to the campus and watch grown people run up and down the highway.
I hope my wife fairs well in this event. I'd hate for anything to happen to her. She knows all the bank account passwords, and I don't know how to make the chicken noodle soup!
It's the bomb.