I hate running

Disclaimer: I realize there are many people out there who would love to have the "leisure" time to run and would kill to have two good legs to run on.  I am eternally grateful for both, but figured nobody wants to read about how happy I am to have my limbs in working order.

I could get more creative with my title, but the three words above really encapsulate my feelings quite nicely.  Brady and I went on a run this morning: the weather was beautiful and cool and the trails were scenic and shady. The ipod was charged up, Nikes laced up, and the baby buckled up in the jogging stroller.  Life is good, right?  The only thing good about the run was ending it and the only thing I hate more than running is the people who enjoy it.  Ok, hate may be a strong word, but I do envy them, their endurance and their toned legs.  My mom was a marathon runner, so let's just say the apple did fall far from the tree.

This morning, Brady and I woke up about 7.  After a rough night, I was not feeling particularly perky and since it was going to be a nice day, I thought I'd wait until after Brady's first nap of the day before hitting the pavement.  My son is a cat napper, so I usually don't have to wait long.  He slept from 8:45-9:15 and I left immediately after that.  Brady is a bit of a narcaleptic in his car seat and if there is anything worse than running, it's huffing and puffing while your sweet baby sleeps peacefully.  I want Brady's naps to happen at home, when I can blog, nap, read  cook, clean, and do the laundry.  Brady did well until about 15 minutes into my run when his eyelids became heavy.  Steering over a pothole would have only put him deeper into sleep.  Pouring water over him was the only option I could come up with, but since I was going to need that water, I let the child snooze.  Besides the conclusion, the best thing that happened on my run was when I passed a lady who had what looked like a Baby Bjorn strapped to her.  Since I passed her from the back, I couldn't see how old the baby she was carrying was.  She was an older lady, so I thought it might be a grandma taking her grandbaby out for a stroll.  After turning around on the trail, I came up on her front side and saw that in fact, this woman had a dog strapped to her chest.  I'm not a dog owner, but when you take a dog out for a walk, isn't it a way for them to get exercise?  Now I should give the woman the benefit of the doubt...perhaps the dog has a bum leg.  Or perhaps I'm just bitter because that dog is smarter than me and somehow weaseled its way out of exercising.

Is it me, or does this dog look smug?

My feelings towards running are not particularly new, but with a baby in tow, my workout options are more limited these days.  While it is certainly not my exercise of choice, I keep coming back to the most practical, effective, and time-efficient way to work out.  If I could play squash every day and never run again, I'd be perfectly happy.  Unfortunately, both my regular squash partners moved away and even if I could convince Eric to play with me, I am not wasting a babysitter for Brady on a squash game.  Side story:  I am not ashamed to admit that Eric beats me in almost all sports we play.  Ping pong?  He can beat me left-handed.  Tennis? I end up throwing my racket.  Running?  Last time we ran together, Eric pushed the stroller and had to reassure Brady that while the breathing sounded similar, his mom wasn't in labor again.  Basketball? My best sport, but he can out-shoot me (although, as my father-in-law can attest, the last HORSE game we played I dominated Eric).  Eric and I started playing squash at the same time a few years back, and Eric said, and I quote, "You'll never beat me in a racket sport."  Up until the last time we played squash, about a year and a half ago, that was true. Finally, I made Eric eat his words, and they did not go down smoothly.  He lost and he lost bad.  After the game, I headed (humbly) to my car to drive him from the squash courts back to the Smith Center where he works.  He had a different plan and after he silently snatched his two bags from my trunk, he started walking.  I tried my best not to laugh as I slowly cruised up next to him and tried to coax him back in the car.  No luck, he was taking his ball and going home.

But back to running (just needed to make sure that story was accurately recorded).  Throughout my life, I've run the gamut of running with some regularity to shunning it completely.  When I found out I was pregnant with Brady, I had just started running a few times a week and was actually on the verge of enjoying it.  When you're pregnant, you're not supposed to do any really strenuous excercise.  So I continued running but when I got tired, I didn't feel guilty about walking.  And when I walked and didn't push myself to exhaustion, the less I hated it.  So I ran more.  And the more I ran, the further I ran and the less I walked.  And the less I sucked at it.  The less I sucked at it, the less I hated it.  So I guess the logical conclusion is that if I want to start enjoying running, I need to get knocked up again. 

No thanks, I don't hate it that much.