So I signed up for a 5K. Why? Because a friend of mine said she wanted to, but her boyfriend refused to help her train, and she was damned if she was gonna haul her ass 3.1 miles down a road alone for virtually no reason at all. And, really, it’s *no* reason. We’re not raising money. We’re not donating proceeds of sweat to a charity. I guess she wants to lose weight, but there are easier ways to do that that DON’T require me to pay money to participate.

Did you know that it’s costing us $35 to run down the street? True. If you do the full marathon, it’s 75 damn dollars. “Hey, pay us to do exercise in public!” I feel like going on craigslist and asking people to try and lift my car for, like 20 bucks a pop. If they do it, I’ll charge them an extra $10. Hey, man, I let you exercise.

My old joke was that I get winded *driving* 3.1 miles, so you can imagine how much fun my training is going. Because apparently the 3.1 miles isn’t enough. No, you have to build up to it, running 1, 2, and 3 miles over the course of several weeks. I guess to you marathoners out there, this is fairly obvious, but it sucks ass! I thought marathons were supposed to be, like, the pinacle of athletic achievement, not just a regular Sunday. Why should I be proud of something I did a week ago? Is it because I got a t-shirt? It is, isn’t it? Well, that’s actually the main reason I’m doing it.

The sad part is, I spend my entire day dreading going running. I talk myself out of it constantly. “I just ate. ‘Bridezillas’ is on, and I don’t feel like wasting DVR space. I already showered today, and I don’t want to waste water.” I suddenly am very concerned with wasting things. But I have actually kept to my schedule pretty well, and after 16 hours of straight excuses, I drag my ass outside and run around my neighborhood.

While I’m running, I hate everything. I hate my lungs, I hate my legs, I hate the music playing on my ipod. I hate the faster joggers running past me, I hate the bikers who never nod thanks to me when I run in the gravel to give them more space, the ungrateful bastards. I hate the world, and I try to convince myself not to veer headfirst into traffic.

I also sprint the last quarter mile because I am a masochist. And it makes happier when I get back to my super-buff roommie, all red-faced and sweaty. But as soon as stop outside the condo door, stretching my back and legs on the stairwell handrail, I feel great. For the next 5 or 10 minutes, my brain is fucking pumped. “That wasn’t so bad! I kind of feel great. Why did I dread this all day? This is health! I am a superhero!”

Then I stumble inside and collapse in a sweaty puddle on my roommate’s nice carpet, and the cycle begins anew.

Wish me luck!