Run limbo

Here I sit. Eating cardboard. Well, actually I’m done so, ate cardboard. An empty bowl in front of me and a still-empty stomach below me. Bran buds: fiber deer turds. The kitchen around me seems vast and empty and my blow-drying mother can be heard through the halls in the back room.

Anyway, here I sit. The clock keeps flashing ominous symbols reminding me that time won’t wait. I’m in run limbo. With each passing number and the thermometer outside creeping higher, I lose exponentially more motivation to go on my run.

It wouldn’t be quite so bad if I lived in a place where 95 degrees fahrenheit wasn’t considered a “mild” day. In Auburn, California the weather is hot. Not hot in a way that beckons the tanorexic or beach goers; you wouldn’t want to lay in sand touched by this sun. It’s the kind of hot that gets inside your head. If you can’t drive a car over hot paved roads with clothes on, you simply cannot run.

It never has to be long: a mile, two miles, three. Yet I can’t seem to deem sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall, less important than getting sweaty and pounding pavement for my “health” (beach bod).

Thinking, thinking, thinking about working out only makes you want to do it less. “Run limbo.” I’ll find any excuse to drive me away from physical exertion if I think about it too much. So, here I’ll sit…


# Shfifty five.

This morning I sat with my mom watching the Sunday Giants game. She was blow-drying her hair and I was going through her cosmetics as I always do, looking for things I could take without her noticing. The small TV in the corner of the bathroom glowed orange and black. Up to bat: some Phillies player (who cares). At the pitching mound: Tim Lincecum, his long hair occasionally being swept up in the soft San Francisco breeze. He peered down the line drive and wound up to throw, yet another, steeeeeeee-RIKE!

My mom stopped blow-drying to get a word in, “that Lincecum guy is amazing.” She fired up the machine again and yelled over the roar, “he’s only 27 and has been in the major leagues for four years. Not to mention he has a championship win under his belt.” She paused and switched sides on her meticulous drying-curling-brushing process, then announced matter-of-factly, “I’m gonna introduce him to Camille.” Between the blow-dryer and the Giants fans my laughter was muffled, but I was thinking… “damn, if it were only that easy.” I sure wouldn’t mind a brother-in-law with an authentic (55) black and orange uniform. My sister could use her wit and charm to pump up this stud of a man and maybe they’d win another World Series.

Giants 3-1.