Run Like The Wind, If The Wind Were A Loser

I have never been what anyone with any remote command of the English language would call "athletic;" my greatest sports-related accomplishment as a child in Little League was striking out so many times that it was downright astounding that I still managed to be disappointed enough to cry each and every time. My parents signed me up for every single country-club popped-collar sports clinic that would enroll my damaged ass, with mixed results, but only if an alternate definition for "mixed" is "catastrophically loseriffic." A sampling:

• At tennis camp, they video taped each of us so we could watch ourselves and critique our stroke. My shiny-special-star sequence was played over and over, in slow-mo, fast-mo, and all other versions of mo, so that everyone could laugh hysterically at my throwing my racket, tearing around the court like a sugared-up preschooler, and all but shedding my clothes to get away from the bee the coach told me was chasing me. IN FACT THERE WAS NO BEE.
  
• I was signed up for "beginner gymnastics" when I was 9, and was placed with the five- and six-year-old class. Apparently my bespangled rainbow leotard with silver hearts and matching headband-legwarmer combo did not convey my inner Mary Lou Rhetton as strongly as I had hoped, and the ankle-biters leaped clear over my dreams...at least during the two classes I suffered through. Quitters R Us, cleanup on aisle 5.
  
• And ballet. For those of you who may object to its inclusion here as it is "not a sport," I defy you to argue that with the ferocious midgets who always jacked the leading roles in our overblown, long-winded recitals. In my last recital, my capstone performance after eleven years of honing my craft, I was cast in a role that graciously allowed me to remain seated for the duration of my own performance, at the end of which I pranced, gracefully (or not) and on-cue (or not) offstage. I just can't be sure--I think my bitterness may have gotten in the way of the stage directions.
• I played varsity (?) field hockey my freshman year of college, and with four games left in the season, the coach unabashedly told me that I was the worst player on the team, explaining why I had ridden the bus to a variety of Division XIV colleges only to ride the bench upon arrival. Also? We lost every single game without the benefit of my magnificent participation, so maybe the skills gap wasn't all that extreme. When your recruitment efforts consist of trolling the freshman dorm the day of move-in, asking stunned newbies if they've ever played skirt sports before, you really can't set your standards any higher than you can whack that ball.
  

Of course, all these rigorous physical challenges took place back in my glory days, when I could chow an entire pizza and not awaken the next morning to find that same pizza jiggling at the backs of my upper arms and battling fiercely with the waistband of my jeans. (Please note that yes, I do consider the ability to chow an entire pizza an accomplishment.) Now that I'm trapped in an adult's body, I find myself struggling to ensure that January's pot pies and February's truffles don't spend bikini season in a matrimonial relationship with my thighs. I have to do something to burn off my bad decisions, and so I run. Kinda. With great fervor, and much dying of the lungs.

It took me at least four years of running before I stopped hating it like Batman hates Joker. The only reason I kept at it, frankly, is because my college roommate/BFF/lovemuffin, Shelley, is a badass physical fitness genie, capable of running long distances in a single outing without having to bum oxygen off the elderly lady with the tank waiting for the bus. After a long evening of pounding shots, winning drinking contests, and finding our roommate in bed with the Mr. Goodbar Du Jour, Shelley would get up, spritz on her eau de Reebok, and bound off into the sunrise, only to arrive a sweaty hour later to proclaim, "I just kept running to see how far I could go, and I ran seven miles!"

Hell, I don't even like to drive seven miles, but guilt is thicker than vodka, and so I'd think to myself, "well, the worst that could happen is...I could pass out in front of the Sig Ep house, and they do have Miller on tap..." strap on my tennies, and stagger out into the sunlight, to bound approximately 10 feet before slowing to a light prance. I pranced, daintily, for about three years, before I determined that if I had the right music, I could up my shuffle to a moderate jog, and I was off! Never to run to the "Titanic" soundtrack again!

My current running playlist is a chronicle of high-energy embarrassment, but it really keeps me moving, mostly because it makes me picture the music videos full of dancer-chicks with waists like Pixie Stix and legs longer than War and Peace, and I feel the need to compete (losing is inconsequential, apparently). It's lame, and I know, but it burns off the wine. In case you're wondering, here's a short sampling of what keeps me hobbling along:

• Flo Rida's sample (cover? do-over?) of "Right Round," which is either about blow jobs or stirppers, the former of which is disturbing and the latter of which reminds me that tennis shoes are always more comfortable than thigh-high plastic boots. Also, someone pointed out to me that Flo Rida is just "Florida" with a space, so I spend the entire song snickering at the grammatic goof-up.
  
• A selection of Britney Spears songs, from her newest vocal vomit, Circus. In her latest release, Ms. Spears, with glitter-coated boobies bigger than her glitter-coated voice, has collaborated with a variety of high-end producers in order to disguise, as much as possible, the fact that she is actually singing. This doesn't bother me in the least, because honestly, were we ever really paying her to sing? I don't know about you, but I was there for the washboard abs and sex for free.
• Kevin Rudolph's "Let It Rock," featuring Lil Wayne being generally and unabashedly obscene. I love this song for the dance beat, but Lil Wayne's voice is like a middle-school smartass with braces and socially awkward jeans running his teeth down a chalkboard. If this kid had a voice, it would be Lil Wayne's.
  

So I tie on my ipod and bound away, hoping no one notices that I'm dragging at least three loose sphincters behind me in my daily death march. If you happen to drive down Grove Avenue and think you may have spotted me, I'm the one with an inhuman amount of red hair and a stride like a dying golden retriever. If you happen to be my boss and drive down Grove Avenue, you already saw me, mid-death spiral, and then made fun of me for it the next day at the office--specifically, my pink shorts.

Just add that to my list of athletic failures, and we'll call it a day.