Running

In the past, if you've been reading a while, you may have heard me wax rhapsodic over Pilates. I've enthused about the Wii fit, as well. I may even have penned a sonnet or two about walking, though it was more on the ability to do so than on any enjoyment received from such.

Just recently, I've started running, as I want to do that 5 K. I can promise you, I believe, to never wax lyrical about the joys of running. Quite frankly, it's almost more than I can manage to get one foot in front of the other in a synchronized fashion and propel myself forwards into motion. I can just about run a quarter of a mile all at once now. While shamefully proud of this rather negligible accomplishment, I will tell you that the joy is only in the accomplishing it and not in the actually doing it.

Frankly, I have always thought that the process of doing something - for a hobby, mind you, not professionally - was far more important than the end result. For me, I have always found more enjoyment in the creation of a scrapbook page than I ever have in regarding the finished page itself. The crocheting is more fun than smoothing the finished afghan on my lap, and the reading of the book, getting lost in the words and the story, are far more delectable than merely finishing the requisite number of pages.

I am struggling, therefore, with running. I want to like it, as it's a very healthy habit that I'd like to be able to adopt. Many of my friends are running now, and I'd like, literally, to keep up with them. However, for the life of me, I can find no joy in doing it.