It’s easy to wax full of ambition and resolve when the sun is setting, the belly is content and the wine glass is nearly dry. In my imagination I run effortlessly, cool wind on my face, the strains of Chariots of Fire echoing in my mind. I run and run and run and run. I fancy myself like young Beethoven, in that fabulous scene from Immortal Beloved, where he runs and runs and runs, finding his bliss, and floats beneath a million stars with the Ode to Joy bursting from his heart.
Alas. The morning comes, and the light of day exposes the fantasy for what it is. This body, though sturdy and strong, is by no means nimble and spry. Binding the breastage in order to even attempt a run is no small feat that leaves me sweaty and practically winded before I’ve even put one foot to the floor. Once outside, it takes almost no time for the burning sensation to sear its path along the outside of my legs, from my ankles to my knees.
I huff and I puff, and quickly decide that walking suits me fine.
Even so, I allow the fantasy to live on in the far reaches of my mind.
I want to be fit. I do. I don’t want to wait for a near tragedy or a wake up call to rattle my brains into acknowledging that I should respect myself enough to honor my vessel in every way imaginable, at all times, without fail.
There are so many forms of so-called motivation that I simply do not respond to. In fact, they tend to have the opposite effect. I need to find that sweet spot in which I block out that which doesn’t serve me well, and hone in on that which does.
I’m a work in progress. I may be forty six, but it’s not too late. It’s never too late. Or, rather, it’s not too late until it’s too late. Right now, it’s not too late.
So here I go. Podrunner intervals for C25K locked and loaded. Push ups for Android, check. Water bottle, full.
a little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now
Look!
I survived! (Day 1, anyway.)
