Yes. En Fuego. Seriously.
On a Tuesday morning, I awoke sixish, dressed for exercise, and prepared to mount up with my iPod and go for a run.
Are you finished?
(Ahem) So as I am reaching for the door knob, Hubster stumbles out and says, "Where're ya goin'?," groggily.
"Thought I might try a run."
"Hold on."
Okay, so, you know, I wasn't really thinking I wanted a witness, I mean, company.
Nevertheless, away we went.
I'm not sure which part I liked best--the sound of my own beleaguered breathing pattern (much akin to the sound of the Hoover Wind Tunnel 2 as it sucks dirt from our living room carpet) or the quaint observation that our run time coincided with the bus stop rendezvous of a dozen or so pre-pubes patiently waiting for the big yellow taxi and something to ridicule and thereby shift focus away from their fragile self-awareness.
Beautiful.
I figured my best bet was to avoid eye contact. I wouldn't hear anything over the noise of my tortured breathing anyway. I could pretend they didn't even exist. 35 years old and I still give a crap what a sixth grader thinks. Hilarious.
I survived. Ran for a whopping total of seven minutes, forty-seven seconds. Walked the rest. Ambulant for a total of twenty. This, my friends, is progress.
But, MAN, do my thighs burn!
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