As a matter of principle, I'm not a runner. I never really have been. I don't believe in it. My entire adult life I've lived by two strict and rigid rules: (1) Only run if someone is chasing me, and (2) No one can chase me if I don't run.
But I have this unfortunate attraction to cute exercise apparel. I like the colors. I like the sporty looks. I like the flattering fit. I DON'T, however, like the pressure I feel to use it for its intended purpose.
Somehow, in the midst of my drooling over a sleek little workout number in a catalogue, while sitting at the kitchen table with my daughter, I roped myself into committing to running a 5K race. My clever conniving to relieve my guilt for buying something I never intended to use properly got me cornered. Knowing my daughter would do her duty and turn me down, I asked her to train with me, weakly selling it as a girl bonding opportunity.
She looked at me like I'd just told her I was leaving to join a contemplative convent, and said, "I'd rather do my homework."
It worked out exactly as I had planned. I'd made the effort. But then, from around the corner came the voice of my 11 year-old son, who innocently offered, "I'll train with you, Mama."
I was trapped, with nothing left to do but tuck my skirt in my panties and run.