I Hate Running

Women running.  That’s hot right?  I mean think Bay Watch babes bounding down the beach, perfect hair tossing perfectly upon their perfect faces attached to their perfect bodies.  H.O.T.!  …and then there is me.  I have been running for years, yet ½ a mile from knees up, I look like I have conditioned my scalp with a half cup of Crisco.  Regardless of outside temperature or weather conditions, I am dripping sweat from my entire face.  By mile one, I am wet through the bands on my shorts and my bra.  The backs of my knees have pasted from glistening to downright swampy.  Still I power on.  Fueled by mass quantities of pasta, I am a running machine.  I look like I may need immediate assistance from a defibrillator, but I tell you I am a running machine. 

You may not know this, but despite logging 12-20 miles a week, I don’t like running.  Nope.  Not a fan.  I have been known to wear my running clothes for hours procrastinating the eventual push to pavement.  So why go?  I don’t like it.  I’m not really training for anything in particular.  It isn’t part of a figure sculpting plan (I have Brazilian Butts for that). So why spend my time doing something so horrendous that I look like I am going into cardiac arrest?  Well, for the men.   I spend my time running alone.  Sort of.  I mean I start out alone, but once I pass through the gates, I am spending time with Rob Zombie, Serj Tankian, Buckcherry,  the entire gang from Five Finger Death Punch, and when I’m feeling mellow, Chris Martin of Coldplay.  To have a rough day and sweat it out with John 5 is more than okay.  To be feeling a little low about where I am in life then hear Josh Todd of Buckcherry croon on for 50 minutes about addictions that he clearly doesn’t recognize puts a little bound in my step and leaves me feeling like maybe being me is preferable to being him.  Any time you can start out despising the idea of something then end up feeling better than a rock star, I would call that a good workout. 

I have an awesome girlfriend and every time I would get down on my body with all its curves compared to the Italian women (and my friend Lauren) she would always say something encouraging like, “Here in Italy we are different Kelly.  This is the only time in our lives where we are going to be the exotic ones”.  True.  Check me out.  I’m exotic in all my average American-ness.  I am exotic running with my massive headphones I bought for playing poker, not for running.  I’m exotic in my miss matched Wal-Mart cast off clothes I have been handed down and garnered from trash-to-treasure swaps.  Exotic.  Yeah Baby.  But, I’m not in Italy right now where I can assume they are staring because I look…exotic, I am in America where each passing car has to be thinking, “should we take that red faced girl to the emergency room or get to The Coral for a coffee stirrer?”  Well, no one has passed up the ice-cream treat for a chance to save a shorty.  Can’t blame them.  The coffee stirrers are amazing. 

Sometimes when I am running I think to myself, “Self, what are we doing out here?  It’s hot/cold/wet/snowey/stinkey."  I realized that I hate running…right up until the first foot hits the trail, then I love it…even as a hot mess.  I would like to run another marathon one day, but putting a time line on it seems a bit too motivated…just like I plan on loosing three pounds and thinning my closet…lifting my butt and buying a red Bay Watch-esk bathing suit.