It’s 10 o’clock at night, the sun is just setting. I’ve just come in from jogging and my t-shirt is still sticking to my back. My breathing is less ragged then it was, but still not consistent. I can hear the voices and laughter wafting from the pub across the road through my window and across the room to where I’m lying on the floor. My body is sprawled part way through a doorway – the last effort I could make after my exertion of running in the heat for thirty minutes and then puffing up four flights of stairs.

I’m not a natural runner. I’m not even a natural exerciser. I have to bribe myself to make the effort. By no means am I a lazy person, but jogging is one of the most pointless and boring things I can inflict on myself.

Why do it? Fear of the expanding waistline continuing its ever growing exploration into regions not previously ventured. The desire to not spend any more money on clothes because the ones I own don’t fit anymore. The fear that friends who will be arriving on my doorstep in a few weeks will look at me and silently think to themselves “god – that’s a lot of weight to put on in three months…” I guess all this adds up to a particularly unflattering form of vanity. I’d love to say I’m exercising for my health, but that would be a sham. And I don’t often believe people who hoist this excuse around – in the end it has to come back to wanting to look better than we do…

So I’ll sweat for a few weeks, maybe something good will come of it. And as all good intentions, like New Years Eve Resolutions, go – it will eventually evaporate. In the meantime, there’s one advantage… jogging behind cute guys who obviously have more dedication than me to staying fit and healthy is definitely assisting my stamina and attempt to keep up, even when I want to crumple to the ground…

*speaking of which, my next post – if not too embarrassing – will be about the blind date I’ve been set up on tomorrow night… God – how on earth did I get myself into that one?*

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