Last Wednesday marked one year since I started running. Not only didn’t I celebrate this anniversary in any way, I didn’t even remember it. I’ve been taking a break for the last couple of weeks. First it was wicked hot and humid, then we were getting ready to go away, and went away, and had to catch up from being away, and on and on with the excuses, which all—except for the hot and humid—also came in handy for reasons I couldn’t do my PT exercises, either. This weekend it cooled off and I finally got up and out again, walking at the state park on Saturday and running and walking in the rain yesterday on the two-mile loop from my house.
So here I am, a year down the road. I didn’t really expect I’d still be trying by this point. If I’d turned out to be good at running, or if it had magically melted pounds off my body, sure, I’d stick with it, but neither has been true. Yet here I am, huffing and puffing and lumbering along. Am I stupid? Am I stubborn? Am I due for a breakthrough? A breakdown? I don’t know. All I can say right now is I’ve promised myself I’ll take 10,000 steps a day on weekends and 5,000 on weekdays, at least for this week. Right now, I’ve got about four hours before bedtime and only 1,632 steps in, so I need to get on that.
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