Freakin' endorphins...

One of the main things I've learned about running is that everyone tries to get out of it. Even those people who do it all the time, who run marathons and races and who identify themselves as "runners" are always procrastinating and trying to come up with excuses for why they can't run, not today, or at least not now. That's what those New Balance Love/Hate Running commercials are about. It's a universal feeling. But this is something I've personally had a hard time coming to terms with because in the rest of my life, I am certainly not a procrastinator. In fact, I'm quite the opposite. My friends joke that I come from a long line of "do-ers," a family not content with just sitting. They're always building or working or cleaning or raking or futzing around on the computer while watching TV and simultaneously reading a book during commercials. And while I'm not quite as bad as my parents who have been known to make no fewer than four trips to Home Depot on any given weekend and build at least three structures out of the resulting materials, I still have a hard time sitting still. You'd think running would be the perfect answer to that.

You'd think.

But some days, some days like today where work was an endless stream of trying to distract myself from the fact that it's summer and no one at the university is doing anything - much less needing me to do things - are the days when I get home completely exhausted...from doing nothing all day. Those are the days when I'm most in need of a run, but those are also the days when I try my hardest to procrastinate. There's always some baseball that needs to be watched, or an elaborate dinner that needs to be cooked. Or maybe it's just that my couch is really super comfortable today. But today the Sox played a day game so the baseball excuse was out. I've already got chili in the fridge waiting to be eaten and I can't afford exotic ingredients for a fancy dinner anyway. And my couch is comfortable but not when there's a twelve-pound feline using me as his own personal reclining pillow (which he does. Constantly).

So I went running. Only for 2 miles because my legs feel like cement and I'm dealing with a perpetually balky hip that gives me nothing but attitude day in and day out. But instead of using those things as an excuse, I decided to see if I could work them out.

Plus, now I don't feel bad about spending the rest of the evening on the couch watching crap television and eating chili.

Maybe I'm a runner after all.

Oh, and can someone tell me why said twelve-pound feline is never more affectionate than when I've just come back from a run, am covered in sweat and want no one who's shedding like it's his job anywhere near me? Seriously.