So... I've sort of been "running." Like, for almost a year. It's been kind of a shameful secret (except to my neighbors who get to see me run by their houses every other day in giant mint green Forever 21 sunglasses being held together by safety pins and a purple sweatband, the tinny echo of Kanye and Beastie Boys and Fergie barely seeping out of my iPod earbuds as I have it cranked to full volume).
It's a guilty kind of admission, because I've always been an "indoor girl." The last time I ran anywhere was some fun run I convinced my dad to take me to at 5am in the morning with my then-best-friend, Patty, above.
Kathleen told me I pretty much did Couch to 5k without knowing it, since 3 miles without walking is now my standard and before I could only run half a block. Times I do take a walk break are a.) if I start crying during a sad song or even just a really cool song (it happens), b.) if I start thinking too hard about an ad campaign I'm working on, c.) if my elderly barely-four-foot-tall neighbor Dorothy literally throws herself in my path to gossip about our "hood," or d.) I have to blow my nose a lot (not from crying, like, from allergies.... or, er, okay crying. I tell Dorothy my face is sweating. On my cheeks. In a very specific track under my eyes. She's too short to tell the difference anyway.)
The deal was sealed back when I was only at about 2 miles running, followed by 1 mile walking, when I read the best book, Run Like A Mother, (isn't that a clever title?) on my Kindle during a plane trip a few months ago and I could not put it down. Not even when the captain told me to turn off all electronic personal devices. That pushed me over the edge to "just do it."
So if a weeping, indoorsy, trendy broke sunglasses wearing, Fergilicious mom doesn't make for one bad-ass Nike ad, I don't know what does.