Running as Mistress

Those of you who know me understand my feelings on exercise, especially running. Self-mutilation disguised as yuppie fulfillment. Imagine my surprise the other day as I found myself doing it. Let me begin at the beginning.

For the past couple of months, B has been exercising. She goes to a gym and uses a treadmill. Also, she suddenly loves music and has been kind enough to share the stuff she finds with me. Finally, her pushing about Madonna got to me. Of course, I've heard of Madonna, but I'm one of approximately seven people on earth not to have strong feelings about her. B kept revisiting the topic, and eventually I had to be swayed.

It is under these ideal circumstances that I began to walk. I don't know what got into me. Maybe it was my desire to have my pre-baby stomach back. Maybe I was just imitating my wife. Or, more likely, I saw it as a way to escape from the mommy chores for an hour without judgement. Leaving The House, when you are an unemployed mommy, becomes very important. It doesn't really matter what you do. Even going outside to take the trash or get the mail becomes a thrill because there is that shock/fear/pleasure of being Away From Your Child that reminds you of who you used to be before him.

The weather had cooled. I was frustrated at my lack of job offers. I was sleepless due to the family's latest stomach virus. I was unemployed and had time. So, I walked. I did this evenings, after the sun had set, and sometimes mornings, too. After a few days, I was out one evening, walking as quickly as I could, and I couldn't get my heart rate up. I couldn't walk any faster without running, so of course the thought occurred to me to (Blasphemy!) run.

I'm ashamed to say it, but I began to entertain the notion. I considered all the harms that would surely come to me: a stitch in my side; a pebble in my shoe; a tiny little cut on my toe turning into an enormous, infected blister; early onset arthritis; stress fractures and so on. I sighed. I was alone on the street. No one would see me. I could keep my run-hating cred. Maybe I would just try and see what happened, whether the All-Engulfing Misery would overtake me, as usual, within the first six steps. And if it did, I could go right back to hating exercise in all forms, especially running. As you see, my hopes were not high.

So, I ran, just this once, for maybe 400 yards. Then I walked. Then I ran some more. I was sore from so much walking, and I found the muscles running used were different from the sore ones, so that was nice. Also, I was panting in no time, which was, after all, the goal. I was hot and sweating, and my fancy black muscle shirt did something neat and new-fangled to help me stay dry. It was cool. I passed some older women on the street and felt like telling them, "Look at me! I'm running!" Nothing hurt. I was going a decent speed, one that no one could mistake for anything other than running. And then! Just when I was getting comfortable and feeling safe about the whole thing, like nothing untoward was going to happen, I was seduced. Euphoria is all that can be said. I felt like I was gliding. I felt beautiful and strong and free. I felt like the star of a Nike ad. Even though the whole thing lasted only 120 seconds, I knew I would be back again and again, looking for that same feeling. Some unknowable lover had gotten into me and made me its bitch.

So now I run.