Let’s talk about people who love to exercise and what mental illnesses they might have.
Just off the top of my head, I can come up with sadism; in the case of personal trainers, masochism; body dysmorphic disorder; and dissociative identity disorder where one of the personalities has body dysmorphic disorder.
I hate to exercise. I try to make myself love it, but every second I spend exercising is excruciating and I only do it because my body is shaped like a Swiss Cake Roll, courtesy of a diet of Swiss Cake Rolls. I kind of want a Swiss Cake Roll right now.
I’m assuming that people who say they love to exercise really just mean they love how they feel after they exercise or love the way exercise makes them look. Or in my case, love how it justifies eating Swiss Cake Rolls. And wine.
Since the new year I’ve been going to the gym and running/walking on the treadmill. Three miles. I know, I’m awesome. Don’t be jealous. Green isn’t a pretty color on you.
Anyway, I figure I’ll be able to run a marathon in a couple weeks if I want to. I wouldn’t actually run a marathon, though, because did you know perfectly healthy, athletic people run those things and then drop dead? Like out of every 1,000 people that run a marathon, 750 people die. That statistic might be a little wrong. I’m too lazy to Google it.
So unless you think you’re good enough to win the marathon, and assuming they have some amazing prizes, I just don’t think the risk is worth it. You can give me a lecture about having a sense of accomplishment, knowing you’ve done something few people do and setting a goal and achieving it, blah blah blah. I don’t set goals other than early morning sobriety, and I do nothing just for a sense of accomplishment. If I’m not getting a prize at the end, I’m not doing it.
Anyway, after several weeks of this impressive increase in my general physical fitness, I kind of figured I was in awesome shape. So yesterday, because The Beast is recovering from a cough and I didn’t want to put him in child care at the gym, I decided to just stick him in the stroller and run around the neighborhood.
I learned some things on my run-like activity yesterday:
1. I’m not so much in excellent physical condition as I am a walking advertisement for a daily aspirin regimen. (I’m a walking advertisement for many things. All bad.)
2. If your stroller has very deflated tires and you’re both too lazy and too impatient to find the air pump and instead decide to push a 35 pound toddler around the neighborhood in said stroller, it will actually feel like you’re simultaneously sitting in the stroller and attempting to push yourself in it. You will regret not finding the air pump.
3. If you have an app on your iPhone that tracks your distance, calories burned, pace, etc., and if you tell said app that you want to do the interval program where it’s supposed to let you know in a sexy computer-generated voice when it’s time to increase or decrease your speed, it will monitor your speed via the GPS and will get bitchy with you and give you the silent treatment if you start half-assing it by going so slowly that you could be passed by a peg-legged pirate who instead of wood has breadstick pegs.
4. If it begins to feel like you are no longer pushing a toddler in a stroller and instead are pushing a dead cow in a wagon without wheels, you will shove the stroller down all the hills so that you can rest your arms for a bit. And then you will run like a demon to catch up with the stroller so that your toddler doesn’t hit a curb. Note to self: The Beast needs to wear a helmet on future runs.
5. If you run by someone who happens to be out in their yard, you will pick up your pace and pretend like you’re not dying even though you feel like vomiting up every organ in your body and possibly even things that couldn’t actually be vomited up, like your spine and your femur and your pubic bone and things that are really strongly attached to your innards.
6. And lastly, when you run by an undeveloped wooded lot where you’ve previously seen a dead animal, you will move over to the other side of the street so that you don’t breathe in the dead animal’s rabies dust.
Just me, huh? Maybe I do need to be medicated.
Just for you, a picture of me running.