Running Is Hard

Running is hard.  As I was watching the runners go by the window this afternoon, their faces twisted with what seemed like agony I only feel when forced to listen to This American Life, I wondered what exactly what it was about what they were doing they found enjoyable. Jogging is big in this neighborhood. I suspect because most of the people are happy they have a nice house and car and probably don’t feel like dying, even if the alternative is being miserable. I tried to run a little bit earlier when Jack was propelling his little motorcycle down the sidewalk with his little rhinoceros legs that never quit moving. But my hip told me to stop. It recommended I come back indoors and listen to the White Sox game on the radio and maybe write a haiku. I also found a few left over Starbursts from Easter we are hiding from the kids. What better place to hide them I thought than my stomach.

The runners never came back in the other direction. I suppose that is for the best. I suspect the house on the corner is abandoned because I never see anyone go in or come out of it. People probably think the same thing about my apartment. I might go there later today. I’m having trouble avoiding the sugar this afternoon even though I made a conscious effort to buy some healthy foods earlier in the week. It’s not easy to stay in shape or eat right at any age, or in any age, or neighborhood, although I tell you what when i was in Houston there certainly were more choices for shopping healthy.

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