I almost didn't run today. I woke up and heard the sleet falling, then pulled open my curtains and saw my across-the-street neighbor's flag flopping like a sheet in the dryer. I thought to myself, "Oh my gosh. This could be it. This could be the day I don't run, the day I break my streak of um...."
For a neurotic exerciser, I really don't know how many days I've gone without skipping a run.
Used to, I'd exercise every day but two: Christmas and the July day we'd drive to Colorado. But two summers have passed since we went to Colorado, and Christmas mornings are always so run-begging peaceful. So I wake up early every morning, and I run.
In the afternoon, (I can't believe I'm revealing this) I either run again, or go to the gym for a swim or some time on the weight machines. To be clear, the total of all this alleged action rarely tops an hour. But it's developed into a habit, one I'm a little embarrassed about.
But it's what I do, and who I am, and I have never come home after working out wondering why I did that. Today, even though the wind pummeled my face with tiny ice arrows, I did it, and came home rather -- well, satisfied, yes. But really I was just cold.
