Run For Fun?

Waking up before the sun breaks the seal of a brand new day.  Dressing up in the garb of choice to battle the endeavour of the morning.  Filling a bottle with a concoction of protein powder and water, before lacing up your  running shoes and heading out the front door for a pre-dawn five mile jog before heading into the office for eight more hours of torture.  I can picture it, but I cannot fathom the joy or choice to run for fun.  It's an alien concept.

I've always been surprisingly fast for my size and shape.  I've had people challenge me in the past to race to the car or whatever, then be flabbergasted as my fat ass left them in the dust.  Unfortunately, those were in my younger years, while these days, arthritic knees and ankles in addition to prior spinal injuries pretty much prevents me from running at all.  When I am rushed, what results tends to look more like a wounded animal stumbling out of the brush than anything that resembles running.

I understand that it's fitness oriented, which is another practice that I avoid.  When forced to workout, in the past, whenever I had to rehabilitate an injury, I enjoyed it to a point, but after a couple hours of repeating the same actions, it became more of an annoyance than rehabilitating.  I've often had those "if I win the lottery" moments where I speculated that I would put a gym in my house, but in reality, would it be used or would that just end up being a space left ignored?  If I'm to be honest, I probably would use the facility if it were in the house, but even then, you'd never see my fat ass bouncing left and right as I ran on a treadmill.  Low impact or not, my knees would not hold up.

An early morning jog on the beach looks kind of refreshing, but again, unless you live there, it seems contrived.  Not only does one need to repeat the steps mentioned in the first paragraph, but now you have to add driving to a destination to execute your morning running ritual.  That's like the last walk of a prisoner headed to his own execution.  There has to be an air of resistance to the concept.  A detour into an early morning drive-thru to pick up all the things that your diet prevents you from having, like for instance, joy.  At this point, though, I can only imagine that your brain is operating on the default setting and there isn't much thinking going on.  You're just running on autopilot.

It is of my belief or creed, if you will, that one should reserve the practice of running for only emergencies, like being chased by a dog or wild animal.  Granted, they're more likely able to chase you down, but at least you have the chance to get away, plus the elevated heartrate will aid in emptying your body of blood, while the wild beast devours you.  So there's that advantage to running, I suppose. 🤔

Anytime I've witness people running, I've never once noticed a smile of anyone's face.  They chose, after all, to wake up at that ungodly hour.  They chose to run out in the brisk morning air.  They chose all the torture they inflict on themselves, so yes.  Why smile at that?  If you do cross paths with anyone who is smiling while they're running, chances are they are a deranged lunatic and I hope all this running you've been doing, has prepared you to sprint for your life before Smiley-pants knocks you over the head and drags you into a nearby bush. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is that overjoyed while running.

If you're an athlete, then of course, running is necessary, but only in short bursts.  Running for hours and hours in say, a marathon, is completely mental.  Both in execution of the task and borderline insanity.  I don't know if I've ever been that overjoyed to do anything of the like.  Like I've previously stated, it's an alien concept.  I can't wrap my head around it.  I can't understand the why, even after listening to countless people about the "benefits".  

I'm at a stage in my life where people around me are beginning to enter the twilight of their lives.  Aunts and uncles, friends and colleagues, are being diagnosed with conditions or inflictions or even dying, despite having lead healthy lives filled with exercise and good dietary habits.  Nowadays, when I hear that someone has passed away, the first thought that enters my mind, isn't that of sorrow or despair, but rather I think to myself, "They exercised and ate right and they still died.  I guess that means I don't have to do any of that, because I have the same odds of survival, regardless."  Kind of psychotic, when you think about it, but nevertheless factual.  I haven't ventured into a gym for a couple of years and that little endeavour ended with re-aggravating an old shoulder injury.

The only running I see in my future is the one I make on my deathbed. When I see that bright light open in the sky, that's when I'll make a break for it.  I'm deceivingly fast for a fat guy and I want to sprint through those Pearly Gates before they realize they fucked and I was supposed to head "south".  No take-backsies. 

The only truly accurate depiction of an early morning jogger.

 

Carol

I'm taking my truck in for the fourth windshield replacement.  I don't know what it is about these Honda Ridgelines.  Of all the trucks I've ever been involved with, this truck is over all, superior to most.  Granted I can't haul huge loads and the box is smaller than most, but if you're looking for the most bang for you buck, you can't go wrong with the Honda Ridgeline, and because of some of it's limitations, friends and family are going to be less likely to request help when moving.  That's a huge plus, in my books.  It's a unibody design, has all the get-up-and-go that a sports car half it's size possesses and the amenities inside are a dream.  There's a huge trunk in the bed of the box, which come complete with drain holes, so you can fill it with ice and keep your beverages cool while at the beach or tailgating.  The truck, like I said, is an absolute delight.  Superior to most on the road, except for that blasted windshield.  There has to be a flaw in the design, because how can I go through so many windshields in the seven years that I've owned it.

A single stone chip, cascades into a full blown crack, from stem to stern.  In this most recent case, I picked up a stone chip nearly two weeks ago, and the crack erupted nearly right away, spreading from near the passenger side edge, clear across the bottom of the windshield, then upwards, dissecting my line of sight, straight into the driver's side pillar.  I've driven the truck like this for just over a week, so I'm taking it in Thursday morning to have the windshield replaced.

I'm told that the process will take about four hours to complete.  They offered me a ride home, but I'm opting instead to meet a friend for breakfast and maybe shoot about town, time permitting.  She calls me her shopping buddy and if it's an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours, she can call me whatever she wants.

I contacted her and she agreed to meet up.  "It's a date." I replied, quick to add, "Not a real date."  She's one to take things in a literal sense, so I need to be on my toes to combat her first instincts.  She's a looker, I'll giver her that credit, but I'm not so lucky that I get to spend time with attractive females.  Especially, any that would find me appealing.

She "L.o.L'd" and commented that she'd help me with a dating profile one day.  I kiboshed that idea right away.  I've tried those sites in the past and have had nothing but scathing bad luck with them.  The worst of which is the true inspiration for this blog entry.  CAROL.

I don't remember a lot about Carol, except all the negativity.  I'm sure in time, she would've come to be a pleasant person and less psychotic, but that's not a gamble I'd wish to take with anyone.  I've battled psychotic in the past (Terri), and that's a twisted road I don't wish to trek again for a very long time, if ever.

The profiles on these dating sites need to be honest and forthright.  Some embellishment is understandable.  I told the truth about myself, but used a picture of the ECW wrestler, Tommy Dreamer, because someone once told me I looked a little like him.  Of course, someone else told me I looked a little like Julian from The Trailer Park Boys, so their credibility is up in the air.  Carol, on the other hand took great artistic license in her description of herself.

First of all, she said she was athletic.  She worked out daily and was physically fit, although she was a bigger sized girl.  As I'm no prize winning pig, either, I can look past such trifling.  Next she described that she was a health nut.  She never mentioned being a vegan, so we were two-for-two.  She was a nurse, which means a meaningful employment.  That's a good sign.

We exchanged telephone numbers and chatted for about a week or so before agreeing to meet for breakfast.  I came to her apartment door in an old masonry building near downtown, and the person I had pictured in my head for a number of weeks, was not the person who stood across the threshold from me.  Her polar opposite, in fact.

She was athletic much in the same way a sumo wrestler would be considered an athlete.  She did workout daily, as had claimed, but it was only to walk to the bus stop at the end of the block, where she rode the remaining five or six blocks to the hospital where she was employed.  She had a treadmill in her livingroom that held multiple plastic-wrapped cases of two-liter bottles of Diet Pepsi, which was the only contributor to the healthy diet that I saw any evidence of.  I'm sure the most liberal of dietitians would still disagree that potato chips and pretzels are not a part of a healthy diet.

She lived alone in the one bedroom apartment, but there had to be at least three half filled ashtrays lining the route from the front door to the living room.  The apartment was disheveled with clothing sprawled and strewn everywhere.  "I'm glad she cleaned up for company." I quietly joked to myself.

She was a huge mess.  A joy to speak with on the phone, but now in person, she seemed like a totally different person.  She was wearing nothing but tight yoga-style pants and a sports bra, as it that was a real article of clothing to be going out for breakfast in, but like I said, I'm not prize winner either, so giving her the benefit of the doubt, off to breakfast we went.

She sat across from me, devouring her breakfast like a hyena tearing into the carcass of a wildebeest.  It was not a pretty sight.  There was, literally, food flying about the table.  If I'd had reached over, I'm sure I would have lost a finger or two.  I'm not sure if she was grunting at all, but for the sake of the story, let's agree that she was.  I'll say this much for Carol, she was not healthy by any means of the definition, but she sure as f**k had a healthy appetite.  I can't recall what exactly it was that she'd ordered, other than it cost a small fortune and it put her in a right randy mood.

No sooner had we returned to her tiny little apartment, but she was ready to go, if you know what I mean.  I, on the other hand, was not.  I was tempted only in the fact that it'd been a long time between physical interactions, but I was not ready to venture down that road.  I told her straight out, "I do not have protection," in hopes that this would dissuade her from any advancements.  I figured being a health professional that would be enough.  "No probs!" she said with glee, "I'm on the pill."  I can't imagine why she'd bother being on birth control.  Watching her eat, alone, would suffice as birth control.

She was determined, though, to get a piece of Jeff, going so far as to block the path to the door, but I was determined too.  I insisted that she allow me to go to the nearby 7-11 to purchase condoms.  This proved distraction enough to allow me to flee.  Thankfully, she never knew where I lived and despite some hateful phone messages, she finally abated her assault when I lied to her, telling her it was her smoking that was the deal breaker.

I have not intention of pursuing the affections of another via the dating site avenue.  I'd much rather hang out with friends and meet some lovely single woman that way.  Unfortunately, all my friends have either gal pals who are in relationships or are borderline psychotic.  No thanks!  I've sailed that ship and I bailed out in time to avoid a total meltdown of the nuclear reactor.