Last week my friend MM convinced me to participate in a 5 kilometer run this fall. Clearly suffering from some previously undiagnosed head trauma, I agreed. Now, you’re probably thinking: “It’s just 5 kilometers. Anyone can run 5 kilometers.” And I will counter that statement by simply saying “Fuck you”.
Because here’s the thing: I don’t run. Unless it’s from the police or a scary clown. I hit the gym regularly but I generally avoid the treadmill. I’m more of an exercise bike/lifting weights/elliptical kind of girl. I’ve tried motivating myself to run, but the only thing that would light my fire in a race is the knowledge that Jake Gyllenhaal is waiting for me at the finish line, shirtless with a devilish smile and a ham sandwich. Him I would make a run at. Hard. I’d just sprint for the sandwich, though.
Another reason I’ve never been a fan of running is that I don’t actually know…how to run. I never know what to do with my hands. I tend to default to jazz hands. Given the right circumstances (lack of witnesses and a wide berth), my running style may closely resemble that of Phoebe’s from Friends. In case you need a reminder:
This should be interesting.