Why I Run
What I am good at is walking in high heels. I like walking to their rhythm, walking faster, pretending to know where I am going. Sometimes I am a better person when my feet hurt. I am good at wearing heels, not running shoes.But in trying to be a modern girl, I found that yoga bores me and most other gym classes play bad music, so I had to pick up jogging. I may tire quickly and drag my feet, but I get to wear pink shorts.
At first I run by the construction workers and by the food carts that feed the construction workers burritos. I like to drag my feet through the piles of fallen leaves that connect the two. I turn the corner at the Peabody Museum, where Montgomery Burns once had sex. Conveniently, you do not always have to make up urban legends about the area where you live because The Simpsons sometimes does it for you. The inside of the museum creeps me out because of how overly dead the dinosaur skeletons appear. But once my friend T. got so drunk in the museum that my other friend the taxidermal dodo must still remember her.
Some people tell me they hate to run. So do I – running is painful for me. And I keep doing it because sometimes, for less than a block, it does not hurt, and that is when I feel on top of the world…
I decided the best possible way to finish this off is right after I came back from today’s run. I hate running. I am gasping for air, things in my body hurt and I want to throw up. My face is the color of my shorts and all I want is to curl up on the floor. This feel-good thing better start working soon.
posted by Dora @ 11:20 PM
3 Comments:
Sometimes the gait is perfect and running becomes almost like flying, effortless and catlike in its smoothness. Then the trail changes, the legs tire or lose that magic cycle and all becomes pounding and strain again... I should know, I'm built like Nick.
I do not remember the taxidermal dodo. I hope that I was kind to him.
You are always kind. I do not believe that you cannot remember the dodo because it is the best thing in the museum after Alf (for African lung fish), but Alf died after Steve and I fell in love with him. It is a tragic story.
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