Thursday, December 9, 2010

Sucking Wind

@#%*K Training Day 1:

I briskly walk around the block and to the cemetery with my husband, 9 year-old daughter and 11 year-old son, who has made himself my official trainer. Their common strategy is to heckle me into shape.

When we arrive at the cemetery, the 60 seconds jogging followed by 90 seconds walking intervals begin. My trainer, who has the stopwatch, keeps forgetting to tell me when 60 seconds is up. He's so far ahead, I wouldn't be able to hear him anyway. My husband says this is a ridiculous training regimen, and that what I need to do is just run. He must have selective amnesia for all the time I haven't run in our 17 year marriage. My daughter is skipping along like a deer, asking me why my legs do that funny kick thing when I run. She's imitating me.

If could breathe, I would tell them all to go dig a hole.

Not a one of them, nor the two teenagers who stayed at home because I might embarrass them (in public), thinks I will ever finish this training. Not a one.

I can't catch my breath to talk, so I boil in my juices, thinking up reasonable excuses for why I can't do this. Only a reasonable excuse, like a broken bone or pneumonia will do. Otherwise, for the rest of my life, I'll have to hear about how I quit.

Thinking makes me go slower and the heckling volume reaches a new decibel.

I survive day 1, but I go home and pout.

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