Running Like There’s Free Beer at the End (there’s not)

Like other middle-class, upwardly mobile, yuppy white women of a certain age with nothing better to do, I have taken up “running” in the last few years.

I put “running” in quotation marks because mostly what I do is trudge along a few steps behind my much-faster running buddy, Amy. What I really do should rightfully be called “forward-propelling-at-a-slightly-faster-than-a-crawl-pace-without-falling-on-my-face.” (Is that a haiku?)

This is particularly true in two instances; the first being when I run with Amy. For some reason, when I run on my own, I’m thoroughly convinced that I’m a speed demon. But running with Amy somehow makes me feel slower, even though she’s way faster than me and I try to keep up. Running with Amy also seems to make me more prone to complaining. And walking. I take a lot of walking/complaining breaks.

The other instance where I suck at running is during the height of summer. For some reason, no matter how many great running days I put under my spi-belt during the fall and spring, when the summer gets here and the humidity gets up there, I become the biggest slug. All of which is pretty understandable, but it’s also hugely frustrating.

Now, it doesn’t help that these two instances of incredible slowness coincide with each other. Amy and I primarily run together in the summer, when it gets too hot in the evenings to run, and we need each other to motivate us to get up at 5:30 in the morning.

When the alarm goes off every morning, I totally think about throwing it at Petunia (calm down, she’s fat and would cushion the thing, it’s not like it would break or hurt her). But thinking of poor little Amy standing around on a dangerous(ish….ok, not really) street corner in Old Town waiting for me while I continue dreaming of eating BBQ with Matthew McConnaughy really guilts me into getting up. I mean, OT at 6 am is sketch! Amy might be accosted by someone with a super friendly dog on a Starbucks run. The “someone” is on a Starbucks run, not the dog. Dogs don’t drink Starbucks. Do they?

The point is, well, running sucks. But luckily, I have a running buddy who somehow puts up with my heavy breathing, sweating (it’s CRAZY! And very stinky. Like a boy), complaining wreck of a self. And just like writing, I keep trying.

Any other runners out there? Do you have a running buddy? Are you a morning or evening runner? Any tips for heavy/stinky sweating? Should I just roll deodorant all over myself or AXE body spray myself? I don’t want to be attacked by all those female models so maybe I’ll stay away from AXE.