Mindful of a need for balance in the universe, I selflessly ignored my own general nutrition. I exercised less, gained weight and inches and found myself increasingly less inclined to do anything as my jiggly bits expanded. Sure, there were vague motions toward reversing this trend. Without proper motivation, though, nothing stuck...
... until it did. So simple: a number and a letter. 5K.
"S. is a few years older than me," thought I. "And doughy and lame as I am, I still possess some modicum of fitness. If she can drive herself to do a 5K, so can I!"
Let's set aside the fact that I've never really run. Let's ignore my age and weight and BMI and body fat and sod-all knees*. Let's forget my post-stage combat lack of focus, my ceaseless self-doubt. Forget it all, 'cause here's the thing: I'm officially in training for a 5K.
There's a race in Florida (New York, that is... not the state) in mid-August. Both my niece and my SIL are running. Gods willing, so am I. I've got two months to get myself up to speed. I've got a knee brace, a new pair of shoes and some seriously badass insoles.** I've a big tin of Tiger Balm and a just-freakin'-tell-me-what-to-do! podcast.
Let's see what happens.
*well, that's another story. never mind. anyway...
**you've never been fitted for shoes 'til you've been fitted by Frank. seriously.