I've been fantasizing about buffets

Haven't been here in a while.  Been running.  Like a lot.  Like more than I ever thought I would run in a week.  Like I am running hills and shit.  I. Don’t do hills.

We get up and run at the local lake at 7am.  On a Saturday morning.  I work from home.  When was the last time I woke up before 7 during the week let alone on a Saturday?  Maybe 2008?  Maybe that time I caught a flight to Mexico and had to be at the airport so I wouldn’t miss vacation.  That got me out of bed at the crack of dawn.  But now I get up to run.  And not to run from bad guys or to run from my problems  I’m just out there like a fool running and slogging along trying not to slow my pace group down.

Oh, but I do slow them down.  I’m the slug at the end of the pack who keeps making decisions about whether I should find the short cut back to the car or to keep on keeping on.  Half the time I am out there wogging (walking/jogging, more walking lately though), I want to bail on my group and go find the nearest buffet and belly up to the unhealthiest and fattening grease pit I can find within a 10-mile radius.  I have visions of bacon and omelets piled high with layers of cheeses.  I think about my body fighting me and telling me to divert the group path and ditch their asses. 

I find myself wondering if I am getting enough oxygen because I am struggling to catch my breath.  And then I turn to my left and a group of hot looking men with the best calves this side of the Mississippi is pacing me at what freaking looks like a gallop.  And so I find myself motivated to get back into shape, motivated to run a freaking half-marathon. 

Stupid bucket list.

We're up to 8 miles next week.  8 freaking consecutive miles.  I'd rather stuff myself with 8 greasy burgers and vomit for 8 hours straight then to slog along at 7 am  on Saturday.

But, I'll do it.

Just because.

My waistline appreciates it.

And maybe my confidence.

But I’m still allowed to bitch about it.