I went running yesterday morning. Every once in awhile I get inspired to put my hair in a pony tail, lace up my runners and go for a run - sometimes this even happens regularly for a period of weeks. But inevitably, my inspirations fizzles out and I realize that I haven't been running in awhile.
After a certain number of blissfull, running-free months (*cough* ... this time it had been more than a year!!), I start to feel guilty about not exercising. As the daughter of a nurse and a student nurse in my own right, I know the importance of a healthy lifestyle, which includes both a healthy diet and regular exercise. The healthy eating part is pretty easy for me and I do try to walk fairly regularly and I almost always take the stairs instead of an elevator when there's a choice. I used to dance competitively, play soccer, and, when I lived in dorms, work out in the fitness centre but recently have done none of these things. It seems a little terrible that I would not comply with the components of a healthy lifestyle despite the fact that I know what they are, and - even beyond that - encourage my patients to maintain healthy lifestyles, including regular exercise. Hypocritical, no?
So, eventually the guilt becomes so great that I start thinking about it. I remember the runners that are sitting in my mudroom on the shelf and the head bands I bought for keeping my hair out of my face. I think about the 'health promotion' goals that student nurses write for their clients in their careplans. The hypocrisy of it bugs me in increasing amounts. This period generally lasts for days to weeks before I finally feel ashamed enough to drag myself out for a run.
It starts out not too badly. The first little bit is easy: my breathing is still smooth and regular, my body is at a good temperature, nothing is hurting and I start to wonder: "What is it about running that I hate so much?"
This is my downfall because almost immediately afterwards the physical discomfort begins. After an embarassingly short distance, my muscles start to tingle, my respiration rate increases, and I feel my face start to flush. Before long, my leg muscles are a screaming inferno of rage, my lungs are aching as I gulp for oxygen in short, desperate, ragged breaths, and I can feel that my cheeks are tomato-red from exertion and that there is sweat on my face, neck, back, chest and stomach. At this point I am forced to admit defeat and slow my plodding pace to the humilated stumble of an exhausted 'runner.' Nothing about the experience is pleasant or rewarding.
[As I was walking along the remainder of the loop back to my house, I walked past a house that was emanating a scent of pancakes. All I could think about was how much I wished I was at home, sitting in my dining room, the activity of running far from my mind, eating pancakes. Om nom nom!]
Perhaps if I were running a respectable distance (like five kilometers, or, heck, even two or three), I could justify the fact that I am so physically spent, but I'm not running very far at all. I can't even bring myself to write down the pathetically small number, which is an illuminating fact for me: this all comes down to wounded pride. Okay, well it comes down to wounded pride plus lungs that feel like there is an inflated balloon inside each of them. My sore pride is not helped by the fact that, even when I do commit to the running and keep at it regularly for several consecutive weeks, I never improve. My distance does not get any longer and by the end I'm hot and red and sweaty and I still feel like my lungs are going to crawl up my trachea, out of my mouth and mutiny.
So I'm back where I started. I hate running, but I need to find some sort of exercise to participate in to keep me active. I have yet to find anything that I like. My dancing years are over, I don't want to play soccer, and jogging clearly makes me angry while simultaneously kicking my pride's butt. What is the solution? Je ne sais pas.
Song of the Day: Mr. Pitiful by Matt Costa
No comments:
Post a Comment