If you don't know what a pod person is, hie thee hence: Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I'll wait for you.
By the way, I watched that movie on TV with my Dad when I was a sick eight-year-old. I must write a post at some point about all of the inappropriate movies my parents let me watch in my formative years. Honestly, I know way more about '80's action movies than any woman should.
Yeah, so, I've been in Orlando, Florida for a work conference. Good people, good work, none of which I will tell you about. One of my co-workers does 5Ks and half-marathons* on the regular, and organized one for us here at the resort. By 'organized,' I mean that she found out they had a 5K route mapped out around the resort, and then set a time for people to run.
On Monday, I walked into the staff breakfast room, and dished some fruit, eggs, and bacon onto my plate. YES, I still eat bacon. I just eat two slices instead of twelve. Anyway, when I got t the end of the buffet line, I saw a poster-sized sign-up sheet for a 5K around the complex.
Hmph.
I've been running like a hamster on the elliptical. The machine tells me I'm clocking three miles in a half hour . Three miles is the rough equivalent of a 5K. Why not try it?
This is where I had tiny identity crisis. Like, a TIA-sized identity crisis, as opposed to a full-blown stroke. I'm not a runner. I read. I write. I drink copious amounts of coffee. I take pictures. I fret over implied hurts and insults. I don't spend my Saturday mornings racing adults and posting my running times on Facebook. I don't get up at pre-dawn hours to feel the wind whipping my hair as I glide across the pavement.
Except... except... Maybe I do? If I'm not a runner, at least maybe I'm a dedicated... Exerciser? I guess runners always seem to LOVE running. Me? I don't love it. At all. I don't love running, don't love the elliptical, don't like the crunches and planks and push-ups. (I do like yoga, though.)
But... After a workout, I love the satisfied fatigue in my muscles, like they ate a good-sized meal at a fabulous restaurant. I love the endorphins. I love being strong. And, I gotta be honest, I love the new shape that routine has given me.
I can't imagine going back to sedentary. I feel gross just thinking about it. I suppose that adds up to evidence that I actually have changed my lifestyle and embraced this whole workout thing.
Which is why, pre-dawn, I met a handful of drowsy co-workers in our hotel lobby, stretched, and hoofed the infinity loop (and trust me, it felt infinite) that wraps around this part of the resort. Half of our group walked it. I ran it. I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound. My running partner is about a foot taller than me, though, so we kept up a pace that was maybe a bit aggressive for my stumpy stems. Twenty-seven minutes later, the sun hung red in the horizon, and the whole 5K thing was done.
I didn't die. I was winded occasionally, but only when I tried to chat while running. (Rookie, right?)
I'm pretty sure that my legs are going to turn to jelly later, though.
*At what distance does the World of Running switch from metric to English systems of measure? I mean, there's 5K, 10K, half-marathon (13 miles), and marathon (26 miles). Should it go 5K, 10K, 21K, and 42K? I just like consistency, is all.
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