How many weeks has it been? Six? Seven? I forget, but either way, I'm still running. Somedays it is the only thing that keeps me on the plus side of the sanity equation. Other days, I must admit that I find it very boring and it is added to the list of things pushing me close to the minus side of the sanity equation. Thus is life.
We've had a 2-day break of nice weather sandwiched into a week of cruddy forecasts. It snowed last weekend, and this weekend I'll probably be wishing the Mister built a kayak for 5 with a couple of pet compartments, because we're in for one heck of a washing. The break was sorely needed, as I was getting cranky about running at the Y.
I am a weird-o magnet. Like bees drawn to an open can of Mountain Dew, any creepy guy who walks into the cardio center of our Y will park himself next to me at the treadmill. I don't know what it is. I'm not hot--the good looking guys don't run by me. I'm married--as my rings announce to all. I wear old, grungy workout clothes that I wore in college (not kidding--I'm a workout fashion disaster, but so what). I generally look grouchy and have headphones on.
Monday morning I went in at 7:30 am, as the Mister had to be home waiting for a conference call. A whole string of treadmills empty--7 to be exact. I'm on the end. Mr. Creep-O walks in. You know the type. Too difficult to determine age, slightly androgynous, dark shaggy-ish hair, Stephen King-type glasses. What treadmill does he choose? The one right next to me.
Am I the only one aware of Treadmill Spacing Rules? I refuse to look over at him, although I can see that he is continually glancing towards me. He spends his time walking for exactly 3 minutes, then pausing the treadmill, jumping onto the sides of it, tries to discreetly adjust himself. I contemplated reporting his creepy keister to the staff. But then I'd be the Hysterical Y Girl.
Last week I was at the Y one night late. Again, whole string of treadmills, and a balding guy chooses the one right next to me. Only this time I know who it is--I went to high school with him and my friend does daycare for his kids. He obviously didn't realize who I was. He said something to me--I don't know what, because, again, headphones--but I turned to him and said, "Hi ______. It's me. . Sarah. . you probably didn't recognize me since I probably look like a dying animal as I run."
He nearly fell off the treadmill. He spent the next of the time talking to me about his kids, nervously, probably to redeem himself and to discourage me from letting the cat out of the bag about his complete disregard for the Treadmill Spacing Rules to his wife. Of course in a thousand years would I never say to his wife, "Oh, by the way, your husband? A creepy Y guy." But it was fun to watch him sweat it out for a bit.
I'm hoping running will begin to stave off the crabby and overwhelmed feelings that are beginning to surface ("Beginning?" says the Mister, not knowing if it "safe" to laugh.) But if it doesn't, I'll gladly settle for it staving off thigh cellulite. That would be a very acceptable alternative.