I have been running for seven days.
Well, I have been walking/running for seven days. Mostly walking, really, but my Runkeeper audio pre-recorded coach Erin says it’s A-OK. It is Erin who tells me when to walk and when to run. We’ve started with a generous ratio of 3 minutes of walking followed by 1 minute of running, and now progressed to 2:1.
That is fine by me. Taking it slow. I’ve tried running several times before, and always ended up hating it so much that I’ve developed an unfair degree of contempt towards street runners. ‘Look at them having nothing better to do!” “You really have to be such a boring person to enjoy it” “Run all you want but we’re all going to die anyway’ – some of these have crossed my mind, and some have actually been spoken out loud. Such a lovely person, I am.
My mistake, as I now realise, has always been the burnout. I wanted to get far and fast, and would push myself way over the limit. I would finish the run panting and hurting somewhere between my chest and stomach, with a sinking feeling that I would have to do this shit again. I’m a perfectionist, but not a masochist. So of course I would say ‘It’s not me, it’s you’ and throw the running gear out of the window.
Not this time.
If I don’t get my well-deserved fix of post workout endorphins, I would be very close to seeking that hit in the chemical realm. See, me and Depression are now what you can call acquaintances. We have been introduced a few years ago by the widely-known socialite Dr Postpartum (also going under the deceivingly cute nickname Baby Blues). Baby Blues casually strolled into my life taking advantage of me being high on post-CS codeine and severely sleep-deprived. He stuck around for a few months, but then I went travelling and didn’t call back on return to London, letting him down easy. Little did I know that Baby Blues would pass my number to his cousin Depression, saying something like: ‘I’ve prepped this one for you, sis!’
She started giving me calls every now and then. Sometimes just a quick text like ‘Still fat?’ Sometimes a proper hangout, and she is such a bad company, just sits there staring. Every time I politely try to pick up conversation, she just cuts me off with some existential crisis bullshit. (Except Covid, at the mention of which she perks up and starts talking statistics manically).
Thinks she’s so smart, reading Nietzsche, watching low-budget artsy movies, checking news all the time. Started casually mentioning pills like: they are not that bad, you know? What are you talking about, addictive? (Whispers) There’s a guy I know who owes me a favour – I got him his fucking job – and he’ll write you a prescription for however long you need. You sleep on it, hun! I’ll stop by first thing tomorrow and fix you right up (wink).
I take extra pleasure in running, knowing she’s there knocking at the door in vain.