I am not a runner.
I hate running with a passion that sears my soul and makes my eyes hurt.
It is a cruel and unusual punishment which certain lycra loving members of the population, namely runners, insist on calling "fun" but which I can only label as "Torturous."
So why on earth, you may well ask, did yesterday evening find me decked out in a pair of torn off sweatpants, a puke stained T-shirt (Baby puke. My standards of cleanliness haven't sunk THAT low) and a pair of Dunnes finest runners as I left the house at a speed some might call a "jog?"
Because I'm crazy.
Because at some point each year, I am blinded by the glow of health and brightly coloured spandex that emanates from the pavement pounding members of the local running club and decide that I want to join their ranks.
Never mind that I hate the feeling of my lungs burning out of my chest.
Never mind that this tends to happen within 5 minutes of leaving my house.
Every year, I decide to go for a run.
Every year, it ends badly.
This year was no exception...
I left the house at around 7:30. The kids were fed, the dishes had been cleared back and there was still an hour left before baths and bedtime. I had downloaded three Michael Jackson Tracks into my phone and had my headphones jammed firmly into my ears. It was slightly misty, but I didn't care.
I was ready.
For safety's sake, I figured I'd walk down the hill and start my run at the foot. Being uncomfortably aware of the less then stylish state of my clothing, I chose to walk down the grassy slope that was hidden from the main road way behind a load of trees and hedges. I also wanted to rock out a little to "Man in the Mirror" and preferred a certain measure of privacy in which to do that...
To say that the ground was wet is an understatement.
Do you know how slippery grass and mud can get after a week of rain?
Midway down the hill, I found out as I fell flat on my back and slid on my arse to the bottom where I was greeted by every walker, jogger and evening stroller in town.
Still, I was not to be deterred and set off at a limp to the nearest trail. The first couple I met moved to the side to allow me to pass. The dry side. My side of the pavement was covered in a giant puddle. No bother! I'd simply jog around it.
Remember what I said about wet ground?
It was like running through a bog. I was soaked to the ankles. The fun factor was rapidly diminishing as was my enthusiasm as I yelled out a few choice words.
Two more slip ups and a near miss with a car later and I was officially done.
I decided to take a short cut home in an effort to end the humiliation a little bit sooner. When I reached the end, it was locked. With a defeated sigh, I turned and headed back the way I came. Midway home I was passed out by the local running club.
Salt. Wound. Rub vigorously.
By the time I finally trudged through my front door, I was soaked to the bone. My arms were numb with the cold and any exposed skin was turning a funny shade of pink.
As I peeled off my wet clothes and stepped into a steaming hot shower, I vowed with passion, "NEVER AGAIN!!!!"
Only time will tell.