I'm no Forrest Gump.
I ran just short of two miles yesterday. At one time, that was considered a warm-up run. Yesterday, I was calling for the Oxygen tank.
Determined to not allow that feeling of death deter my plan to recommit to regular exercise, I laced up the runners and set out for another jog today.
The full 2 miles. Oxygen tank.
Maybe tomorrow I'll make it 2.1 miles and be able to breathe without machines afterward. Or maybe I'll eat Pad Thai for lunch and sit on my ass all afternoon.
I'm going to be forty years old in 35 days, and despite all my efforts, I haven't been able to stop time. Since there's nothing I can do about aging, I really feel I should work on the preservation piece. It's just so much more fun to not do that.
I'd like to write more, but the bedtime routine is beckoning, and I promised a piggyback ride upstairs to a four-year-old sweetheart with a flawless face and an evil arse.
Toodles.
No comments:
Post a Comment