Wait Till I Catch My Breath So I Can Tell You To Shut Up

So I've been doing this running thing. I can't say I am overly committed to it, which if you know me makes sense since commitment ranks directly behind spiders as Top 5 Things That Scare Nom, but I try to run a few times a week. There was a point a few months ago when I was running everyday, but then I realized eating and subsequently complaining about how much I ate was a much better use for my time. That and blogging - I'm counting on one of those two to help me bank that first million.

Anyways - I went running yesterday. I had been running in the snow, which meant I packed on multiple layers, gloves, hats and in the end looked like Tyra Banks in a fat suit (is that an oxymoron? ZING! I'm kidding - women today have too much pressure to be skinny...blah blah blah. I'm just looking for a laugh, ok?). But yesterday I decided that some pull-away pants and a long sleeve shirt would be sufficient. Obviously I was way the fuck off and I froze my ass off on my run (which was more of a run, walk, run, then walk more - but that takes a lot longer to type). I finally made it back to my apartment, snagged my mail and crawled into the elevator.

Now, I can barely stand at this point. My course is all of MAYBE two miles - only about 1.5 of which I actually did any running - but the closest thing to a sporting event I've taken place in since the 90's was that time I saw Keira Knightley at the mall and spent the next two hours running through her mind. HEY-O! Did someone grant these jokes a pardon? Cuz they're off the HOOK!

Anyways, due to my lack of shape I crawl into the elevator and lean against the wall as my life flashes before my eyes. A young girl enters behind me, also clutching her mail and asks which floor I am heading to so she can press the button.

"...*pant* 5...please...*pant*..."

She presses the button and I go back to putting a kung fu grip on my last strings of life.

"I get so much junk mail it is ridiculous!"

In my withered state I assume this is the voice of God, and though I am open to the idea of God being a woman - his voice being that of a 20 something complaining about his junk mail seems a bit odd. After realizing this was not some form of religious analogy I look to the girl and see she is waiting for a response. I couldn't allow the last thing I hear before my death be a complaint about junk mail - but speaking over four consecutive words could be deadly. Finally I stumble over the following sentence.

"...*pant*...Ha!...Look at all this crap" At which point I wave my stack of coupon fliers and credit card applications at her like an over-matched boxer throwing an exhausted punch in the 10th round.

From here the conversation goes like most elevator conversations - references to the weather and her showing her incredible skill of asking questions that can't be answered with a simple yes or no. At one point I actually hit what runners call "the wall" and had to dump Gatorade over myself before talking about the rain.

I started this whole work-out routine for the same reason as everyone else - I wanted to look good naked. After this latest experience, however, I am beginning to think that running isn't working out.