It has been a little over a week since I decided to hit the ground running again. While it has been only a short time, I am proud of myself for staying disciplined and getting out there every evening — and even a few mornings before work. As C.S. Lewis once said, “What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step.”
To sweat feels pleasant. To hear my lungs gulp in fresh air is a song — all the while trying not to swallow red, beady-eyed kamikaze cicadas nose-diving from a nearby loblolly.
Progress (5/24 – 30)
To a serious runner, this amount of time may seem like a drop in the bucket. To me — someone who hasn’t seriously exercised in two years — it is an exceptional start. What I see above isn’t just 205 minutes of logged running. It is a transition from the sedentary lifestyle I have lived since my daughter was born in 2011 to an active one.
As someone who has been physically active his entire life (I was never a gym rat or runner per se but I have always played basketball religiously), I suddenly fell into a lifestyle that was not only negative in regard to my health and well being but also exhausting mentally. I was zapped of energy when I woke in the morning and zapped of energy when I went to bed. Even during the day, I felt lethargic.
I’m changing that now, one step at a time.
I’m re-claiming my energy and peace of mind, for myself and my children. When my daughter Annabelle was born and began to sprout up like a beanstalk (she is now 2), I felt as if I was being selfish if I took off out of the house to play basketball or jog a short distance. I understand now, “me time” is okay. It’s good. It’s healthy. It’s better for me as a person and as a parent.
My daughter wants a dad with energy, one that can dance a jig with her to the Ramones (yes, I’m brainwashing her with good music from a young age) for thirty straight minutes without having to sit down because my lower back is acting up on me again.
Now that I have a son, I need to come clean, too: ever since I was a young lad, I always envisioned one day I would dunk on my son when he was fifteen or sixteen. A nice, drop-step dunk — two handed tomahawk. I would be the old guy who still had a little hops after all these years.
It can still happen.
There’s still time.
There’s still some bunnies left in these legs of mine.
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