Some people are born athletes. Some people are not. I'm pretty sure I fall in the “not” category. As a child, there were many non-athletic words which described me: underweight, average height, awkward, shy, frequently cold and allergy plagued, and accident prone.
I hated physical education classes, and spent the majority of my elementary and middle school years strategically planning ways to avoid mandatory athletic activities. My all-time favorite avoidance maneuvers included: volunteering to be in the outfield for softball games, which ensured as little contact with the ball as necessary; guarding other non-athletic girls in basketball; standing behind the most competitive girls in volleyball, virtually guaranteeing the ball and I would never meet; and being the first one struck out during dodge ball or tag tournaments, allowing me to safely watch from the sidelines for the rest of class.
As a young college student, I lived a happy sedentary life. Required physical activities were a distant nightmare of my awkward past. Sports were something other people did, and I vowed to keep it that way.
I was the shining example for all vow keepers until I met my husband during one fateful summer during my college years. Yes, honey, if you’re reading this, I’m blaming you for aiding and abetting with my vow breaking!
In middle school and high school, my husband ran cross country and participated in track events. He was athletic, intelligent, and a confident runner. By the time he reached his college years, he only ran for his own enjoyment.
The concept of running for pleasure was new to me. I met this man who I considered intelligent, yet he was clearly crazy. Who runs for fun? Up to this point, I had always followed the principle of “one should only run if on fire.” Of course, you know how we are when we are young and in love. We do irresponsible things in the name of love like break vows and become athletic.
The first act of vow breaking occurred on a hot summer evening at a popular park north of town. My husband convinced me it would be fun to go for a nature run down a deceptively beautiful one mile trail. Again, due to the young, dumb love thing, I suppose, I agreed to go on the run and threw on my inappropriate running gear: my not-so-sporty bra, an oversized t-shirt, a pair of shorts, ill-fitted bargain running shoes, and cotton socks.
We started down the trail, and I quickly realized a few things immediately. First, things were bouncing on my body that did not appreciate being jostled. Second, one mile is really long and difficult for someone who is out of shape from gaining the dreaded "freshman 15" and who has no training. About halfway through the run, I found myself gasping for air and limping like a three legged gazelle trying to outrun a cheetah. Other runners, walkers, and bikers smirked and giggled at my pitiful attempt to finish the trail.
You would think such an experience would cause a person to never again dare to attempt a second run, but young love does funny things.
I hated physical education classes, and spent the majority of my elementary and middle school years strategically planning ways to avoid mandatory athletic activities. My all-time favorite avoidance maneuvers included: volunteering to be in the outfield for softball games, which ensured as little contact with the ball as necessary; guarding other non-athletic girls in basketball; standing behind the most competitive girls in volleyball, virtually guaranteeing the ball and I would never meet; and being the first one struck out during dodge ball or tag tournaments, allowing me to safely watch from the sidelines for the rest of class.
As a young college student, I lived a happy sedentary life. Required physical activities were a distant nightmare of my awkward past. Sports were something other people did, and I vowed to keep it that way.
I was the shining example for all vow keepers until I met my husband during one fateful summer during my college years. Yes, honey, if you’re reading this, I’m blaming you for aiding and abetting with my vow breaking!
In middle school and high school, my husband ran cross country and participated in track events. He was athletic, intelligent, and a confident runner. By the time he reached his college years, he only ran for his own enjoyment.
The concept of running for pleasure was new to me. I met this man who I considered intelligent, yet he was clearly crazy. Who runs for fun? Up to this point, I had always followed the principle of “one should only run if on fire.” Of course, you know how we are when we are young and in love. We do irresponsible things in the name of love like break vows and become athletic.
The first act of vow breaking occurred on a hot summer evening at a popular park north of town. My husband convinced me it would be fun to go for a nature run down a deceptively beautiful one mile trail. Again, due to the young, dumb love thing, I suppose, I agreed to go on the run and threw on my inappropriate running gear: my not-so-sporty bra, an oversized t-shirt, a pair of shorts, ill-fitted bargain running shoes, and cotton socks.
We started down the trail, and I quickly realized a few things immediately. First, things were bouncing on my body that did not appreciate being jostled. Second, one mile is really long and difficult for someone who is out of shape from gaining the dreaded "freshman 15" and who has no training. About halfway through the run, I found myself gasping for air and limping like a three legged gazelle trying to outrun a cheetah. Other runners, walkers, and bikers smirked and giggled at my pitiful attempt to finish the trail.
You would think such an experience would cause a person to never again dare to attempt a second run, but young love does funny things.
I can completely relate to this... however, I still feel un-athletic :) Good luck!
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