Doing Scary Things

My Lululemon lunch bag has some words on it that say
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Part of me always worries that by doing one thing a day that scares me, I will eventually get bored of simply being scared and instead do one thing a day that $#@*% terrifies me. This would eventually lead to jumping out of a perfectly good airplane strapped to some guy named Buddy who uses the word “Dude” and “like” as punctuation.

Dude, I, like, don’t wanna do that, k?

But, in the past few days, I have been doing scary things. Scary things like running with my husband.

My hubby and I have decided that once a week, we will pay the neighbour girl to come over to watch the kids and go running.

Together. At the same time. Running.

This would seem to be not a scary thing for a lot of you, but trust me. Running with other people, let alone my Dearest, is $#@*% scary.

Why, you ask? Well, I am very nearly a midget. Most people, including my Sweetheart are about eleventy-billion miles taller than me. This means I am likely doing double-time to keep up, and the workout can begin to suck if I am not ready for the intensity. I have stubby, short legs, whereas most folks, like my One-And-Only, do not.

I was worried he would either have to shuffle run so slow he would grow moss on his North side, or I would have to keep up to his giant-sized stride, and die a horrible death when my lungs exploded.

We (meaning me) elected that I set the pace, and I tried not to let his stride make me run harder than I was ready to, as we ran abreast. Eventually he just stuck behind me, since I naturally run with my elbows out and his ribs were getting bruised.

I thought hip-checking was a normal part of couples running together. He disagrees. *grumble* spoilsport.

We used gaspy hand fluttering sophisticated hand signals for each walk/jog segment, and each plugged in our own music (His choice in running music is, frankly, atrocious). I kept pace with my Couch to 5k W1, D3 work out.

I was a tiny drill sergeant, it was awesome.

It wasn’t so bad when we finished the work out, and we kind of liked the time spent together. He said it was a bit slow, but from the snorting bull sounds coming from behind me (Yes, I heard through my headphones with Deadmau5 pumping), I think the intensity was just what he could handle. I breezed the work out (despite the small-biting-animal-shin-cramps that made me convulse at each segment junction), and I am ready for more.

(Note to self: Take Advil and massage Traumeel on $#@*% big shin bruise before next run.)

It’s not a competition but… *nyah* I can run farther than he can! *ahem* Sorry. It is not about who is better, is it? (Edit: of course it is, I must be a better runner so that when he beats me at Mario Kart, I can rub his face in something).

Next week, I’m gonna pace to W2, D1 for our run and see how my Honey likes that.

However, the downside of actually having a good time of running with him means I gotta find another scary thing to do. (Damn you Lululemon and your evil, wicked, inspirational lunch bags)

Maybe I’ll sign up for a race or something….

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