I went jogging yesterday.

 

 

I think some kind of natural disaster like an earthquake, tsunami or snow in Nevada is imminent, because I have disturbed the natural order of things.

 

We've been working with a personal trainer, Silent Evil, and I have now reached the stage where, if I don't exercise, I get antsy.  

 

We'd planned to go the gym, my job hunting and Fluffy Bear's work got out of hand, and we ran out of time.  Next thing, like an out of body experience, I hear myself saying to him:

 

And off I went.

 

As I hit the sidewalk outside our house and tried to fall into some semblance of a stride, I felt heavy, like I was literally pounding the pavement.  

 

My mind flashed back to a PE (Physical Education) class in school when we had to sprint accross the playing field.  A bunch of my classmates collapsed in a heap of giggles behind me because, apparently, I "run funny."  

 

For a teenage girl, this kind of moment is devastating.  

 

I instantly vowed never to run again but realized, even as that thought entered my head, that there was no way I could keep that promise.  I didn't dare become one of the losers who had a note from their mother or doctor to avoid PE and sit in a classroom alone somewhere supervised by a teacher who really didn't want to be there.  

 

Here's the thing about PE in High School.  You're not supposed to avoid it.  You're supposed to be there, make minor adjustments to the PE uniform that magically transform it into a semblance of a fashion garment, stand around looking like physical exercise is beneath you and, when actually forced to do something like sprint or throw a ball, do it incredibly well.  Then the teacher will beg you to be on the school team of netball or field hockey or something or other, and you can roll your eyes and refuse.  

 

You are not supposed to actually make an effort, like you care, and then - horror of horrors! - run funny...

 

Now that I'd had the chance to savor this particular childhood memory, I was shuffling along on the shady side of the street, head down, panting.

 

I hit the park and had a reasonably good jog/walk/pant session, the Rocky music blaring in my head when I hit some steps.

 

I could feel the heat on my face - when I exercise it goes bright red - and I was kindov enjoying the sensation of moving and challenging my body.

 

But a woman walking her dog must have thought I was about to explode in a bright red heart attack, because she insisted on walking up to me and chatting.  She said she hadn't realized this park was so big and where does that section over there come out?  I panted the name of the street that hid behind the trees she pointed at, mumbled a vague wish that she have a nice day and cranked my muscles up again.

 

Goddammit, it's so much harder after you've stopped.

 

Pant, pant, I continued on.

 

Back onto the street, and some arsehole in a convertible turns the corner right in front of me instead of letting me use the cross walk.  I shook my head as he came by me and hoped some sweat hit his faux leather seats.

 

Almost home.  Keep it up.  Don't give in now.

 

Pant.  Pant.

 

Then a bee flew into my hair.  What are the chances of that happening?

 

I mean, are you fracking kidding me?

 

Frantic head shaking, jumping about and arm flapping ensued in front of the houses of all my closest neighbors.

 

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