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…

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