I have something new going on, something I've almost purposefully been avoiding mentioning here for fear of jinxing it. Since the middle of June, Sweet Husband and I have been running. About five mornings a week, about three miles a morning, with child and dog in tow.
It started because I felt bad for Sweet Husband. Pre-the-Kid, he had been running regularly, and he enjoyed it. But our schedule got so catawampus once the Kiddo was born, that it became almost impossible for him to schedule times with his regular running buddy. He tried getting up and going by himself, but it was hard without the accountability.
"I would be happy to go with you," I told him and myself, "But with the Kid not sleeping all night, I need every extra minute of sleep in the morning. And our evenings are full with getting dinner on the table and getting the Kid to bed at a decent hour. There's just not time." But then the sleeping thing sort of worked itself out such that mornings wouldn't be a problem. The only excuse I had left was the only one that had ever really mattered: I'm just wasn't a runner.
No, really. People who get up and run every morning are intense. They're competitive and athletic. I can't walk and chew gum at the same time without falling down, and I was always the last person picked for kickball teams. I just wasn't a runner.
But what I am--or at least what I try to be--is a good wife. One who helps support her husband in doing the things he loves. For the first few weeks, that was the only reason I was putting on my shoes every morning, but it was enough.
Since then, it's started to take on a life of it's own. I've had some job and family stress this summer--the kind you can do nothing about except worry--but, illogical as it is, running has felt like doing something. Beyond the mental stuff, I just feel better on the days we get up and run.
When we started out, the goal was to run a half-marathon this fall. I was nervous about running that distance for a first race, so this weekend we did a 10K for practice. That's us at the finish in the picture above.
I'll start by saying that we came in dead last. I'm not even exaggerating a little bit, the race volunteers were literally waiting for us so that they could go home. We finished in one hour and twenty-eight minutes, but we finished. It's the longest distance I've ever run in my life, but I didn't have to stop and walk once.
And all of a sudden, I'm planning the next year. The half in October with Sweet Husband, a 15K with my co-workers in November, perhaps a short-course triathlon next summer--there are so many possibilities. I know that the mental block was of my own making, but now that it's gone, it's amazing what I know that I can do.