Let me preface this post by explaining this: I consider myself neither a runner nor a writer. I'm more of an imposter doing my best to blend in under each category. When I say I'm "running" or "going for a run", it really means I've been trying out this Couch to 5K program I found on Pinterest. Four weeks in, I'm still on week 2, but that's another story. Basically, it comes down to the fact that I run 2 minutes, then walk a minute for a total of 30 minutes and pretend that counts as real-life running. And when I say I "write" I mean...well...I'm here.
Imposter or not, I came to this conclusion on the treadmill today: running and writing, for me at least, follow almost exactly the same process.
It always starts with a glance at the clock. Crap. I wanted to be in bed by now, but I swore I was going to do this! Ugh. Is it too late? Should I just skip it? Should I do it anyway? This debate usually takes about a half hour, meaning I could have been done already by the time I finally decide to get started. Productive, I know.
Then there's the prep time. Lacin' up the ol' sneaks. Pluggin' in my tired old computer. Wrangling the hair up in the most unceremonious way possible. What if someone sees this? Wait, isn't that the point? Oh no.
Ready to go. Little bit of self talk comes in here: You got this, girl. You've done this before, you're gonna be just fine doing it again!
First few minutes - okay, feeling pretty good about this. Heck yeah, I can so do this! I'm super-fake-runner/writer!
Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Oh sweet Jesus save me. What in the world was I thinking? I can't do this! I'm just pretending I could do this! Lungs exploding. Fingers numb. Is this what shin splints feel like? I think this is what they mean by writer's block. Oh come on hair, stay put. Where is all this sweat coming from. Oh gross, I can feel every bit of dinner in my stomach. My clothes are sticking to me. Seriously, where is all this sweat coming from?! Poor life choice. Poor life choice. I'm dying. This is what dying feels like. I've got to be dead.
Hey wait a minute. Hey, this isn't so bad. This is a nice song. If this is what dying feels like, I really don't think I mind it so much.
I'm done! I'm done I'mdoneI'mdone! Booyah! Cue some "We Are The Champions" please. Wave to the fans. Casually wipe the brow. Flex those muscles....
....and collapse into bed.