Tonight at a birthday dinner for my Tiny Running Pal, she confessed she's trying to turn another girlfriend to the dark side.
"So, I went for a walk with Ms. P the other day," TRP said, eying Ms. P across the table. "I've decided she needs to start running."
I took a bite of falafel (This is an important detail. The falafel was good.)
"Why?" I asked.
"Good question," TRP said, while Ms. P shook her head.
It all came down to a matter of pants size.
"Oh, if that's your concern, then do it," I said. "Sorry, I'm on her side. Run."
"OK," Ms. P admitted. "I'll admit, I'm intrigued by the idea."
"How long have you tried running before, did you get up to two to three times a week for a couple of months?" I asked.
She shook her head. No, she'd only lasted a couple of weeks.
"Then you don't know," I said. "Look, if I can run, and get to the point I enjoy it, you can run."
I spared her the details, about how profoundly lazy I was as a kid. How I'd fall asleep in my dinner. How I'd been on a swim team at one point, and though I'd shown some proclivity, I simply hadn't a competitive bone in my body. I'd finish a race, and my dad would be standing there, shaking his head.
"You were in first until the last few yards. You were winning," he said.
I'd shrug. Third was good, too. What was the big deal? Also, was snack time coming? And were we going to make it home in time for "Charles In Charge"?
In the car on the way home from dinner, Ms. P admitted it may be time. She may be willing to hit the trail. But, she was clear on one point: Bitching and moaning is something she enjoys. She simply refuses to give it up. And although I'm lazy, I'm not much of a complainer. Still, I'm fine with the potential bitching. I want to join TRP and Ms. P on the trail.
I've decided the physical therapists have three weeks to get my heel in shape, or I'm searching out an injection. I need to join them. I can't let Ms. P and TRP run without me.
