My husband
has gone running.
About a year
ago one of my book club friends lent me Run
Fat Bitch Run and even though I read it and found it pretty motivating, it
could not tempt me to run. Nothing can, running hurts my knees.
So, thinking
myself very clever, I read it and used the motivation to swim more regularly,
gradually building up the number of lengths I did. This all lasted about three
months until the tiring reality that goes along with regular vigorous exercise
hit home and I slumped on the couch instead. The endorphins never really kicked
in, or if they did, I must have missed them.
Also, one
night when I was coming out of the pool a very drunk/drugged young woman asked
me for a lift and I found myself on a dark street refusing her and then feeling
sure that the minute I opening the car door to drive away she was going to dive
in. So, for a few nervy minutes I hovered at the drivers side and she
hovered by me. Eventually, when I started walking casually back to the pool, she shouted “I’m not going to do
anything to you, you stupid cow!” and then walked onto the main road into
traffic. A taxi swerved, missed her and the last I saw she was arguing with the
driver. Just another grim night in
Dublin city centre and not really an excuse to stop swimming, but it was enough
for me.
My husband,
on the other hand, did exactly what it said in the book; he found a circuit,
timed it, chose his running days, stuck to them and most importantly, kept it
up and now, about a year later(deservingly, sickeningly) is still at it.
So I suppose I can understand how he might get peeved when I
start questioning why he has to do the run straight from dropping the kids at
school. You see it’s not the running, it’s not the timing; it’s the running
pants. After about eight months of running, he treated himself to new shoes and
a pair of running pants, which are like leggings. Lots of men wear them; it’s just that when I
gave him the school tour form this morning to give to my son’s teacher, along
with a tenner, I couldn’t help thinking that this particular teacher is usually
sitting at her desk in the morning. And unless my husband went down on his
hunkers, any conversation they would have would be at wiener level.
Which is without a doubt the most immature sentence I have
ever written.
His answer was brief and to the point.
“for goodness sake, we’re actually on time this morning. Come
on boys! And yes, I am wearing them. They are very comfortable.”
I have said those words to him more times than I can count; most
recently when I got my brogues. I purchased both the natty two-tone and beige,
so stylish in the magazines, so horrendous on my foot. Matron was the only word
that came to mind when I looked down. Nothing could have made my ankles look
thicker.
But I still wore them. They were comfortable! But those running pants were giving me pause for
thought. Could I cut a deal? I walked across the kitchen in my fleecy lined red
Crocs which, I then realised, were tolerated daily. Wiggling my cosy toes I
knew I could not. I suppose life’s too short not to be comfy.
For both of us.
