I am not a runner.
I’m what you would call a wannabe runner. That is, I desperately want to be a runner. I wish I could wear cute running shorts and get up early and run five miles before eating breakfast. I think the combination of wind flying through my hair and the sound of my shoes hitting the pavement would be the perfect start to any day.
Unfortunately, I hate running. And I hate that I hate running, but it’s the truth. One time I did the CIM relay with some friends and ran 6.3 miles. I trained for 8 weeks and felt so dang accomplished that I went home that very same day and signed up for a 10k. And then I ran two 5k races after that. I tried to love it. I told people I loved it. But really, I hated it.
To me, running is like eating vegetables. I know it’s good for my body and gives me energy and blah blah blah, but really, I’d rather just sit on my couch and eat a bag of cheetos instead. I have a moderate amount of self-discipline, but when it comes to exercising, I’m more of a yoga/Pilates type of girl.
That being said, I did something really dumb when I was pregnant. I signed up to run a 5k less than three months after Everett’s due date. I was like, ohmygosh what a GREAT idea! I will sign up for a race so I will HAVE to train and therefore lose all the baby weight and have my body back by August! Brilliant!
Not brilliant, Ashlee. Stupid. The word is stupid.
I have gone running exactly two times since I had Everett. Both times I barely ran one mile, and it was humbling, to say the least. Everything was just so….jiggly. And now it’s Thursday and the Color Run is on Saturday and I am sad to admit this but I am totally dreading it. Womp womp.
Are you a runner? Did you always love running, or is it an acquired taste, like brussel sprouts? (Also worth noting: I hate brussel sprouts.)