One thing I’ve noticed about moving to the city of Birmingham and living and working within the confines of the city: There are so many runners. All sort and shapes and sizes. But the ones that seem to catch my eye the most are the old men.
There are all these really old, gray, wrinkly men that run constantly on the street I work on and even where I live. Is it wrong that I saw a man the other day that looked like Wilford Brimley from the neck up and delicious from the neck down and wanted to drool? His legs were amazing, all muscly and sinewy and strong. I mean, really. It’s a crime to be that old and look that good.
I wish I had a runner’s drive and dedication. But I just can’t do it. I never could run when I was in school. I hated it. I got all out of breath and itchy and wanted to throw up. Now, I love a good walk, and you get basically the same benefits without all the stress on your joints, but it doesn’t sound as cool to say “I’m going out for a walk” as it does when someone says “I’m going for a run.” I used to like to draw a line down the middle and say “I’m going for a jog,” because now that I can do. I like to blame it on my knee (which does prevent me from doing much more than a swift walk or light jog), but I really know it’s because I hate to run.
But God bless the men who don’t hate it. And the girls who are always running on my street? I hate them.
I think I’ll stick to walking and yoga.