I’m a guest blogger on the Bad Kitty blog!
Well, okay it’s just one post. And uh, you’ve already read it (I hope!) because it’s the interview with Rodney James, aka Mr Burlesque.
But it makes me ridiculously happy that I’m able to contribute to Bad Kitty, and I’m really really stoked that 53 people ‘liked it’.
Okay, enough trumpet-blowing.
Yesterday I went running with the husband, who has recently become fixated with running. Fixated, I tell you. In the past 3 short months since he picked up running, he’s gone from 6 rounds at the track to completing a 10k marathon and now clocks up to 22km at one go. He’d been going on and on about how beautiful it is at the nearest reservoir to our house and insisting that I Need to go.
Mind you, I spent my entire childhood and adult life (until approximately six weeks ago) hating running with a passion. I still have vivid memories of wheezing through the annual 2.4 km school run, with the school’s grossly overweight fitness coach yelling at everyone as she whizzed past on a bicycle. Not a good way to motivate teenagers.
But recently I’d started gently running a few rounds at the open track field next to our office once a week, and then graduated to jogging around the neighbourhood with the husband last week.
So I agreed to run to the reservoir.
By the time we got there, I felt ready to go home. But my
delusional fool of a optimistic husband brushed away my fatigue with promises of getting “re-energized by nature”, so I soldiered on through trails and woods til we got to the water, and somehow managed to keep going for one more lousy kilometer.
Once I realised that the path we were on did not lead back to the entrance and that we’d have to run back, I insisted on turning back immediately. By this time, I was feeling irritably hungry and drained, and it was getting dark.
Thankfully, there’s a cafeteria near the entrance. I don’t remember ever being so happy to buy a slice of banana cake in my life. Then it was all I could do to insist on crawling into a cab without killing something.
“Hey, not bad! The tracking device says we clocked 5 km in total! You did really well!” chirped Mr. Reservoir Dog.
To a non-runner like me, that’s practically the equivalent of running from Singapore to Cambodia on foot overnight while balancing a shoe cabinet on my head.
When we finally got home, I took a shower, changed into my pyjamas, and passed out for 2 and a half hours without eating dinner or moving. Earthquakes and rioting mobs would not have roused me.
After I woke up, my husband sheepishly told me that his faithful Nike Plus tracking device had been set to Miles and not kilometers. Which means we clocked 8km in total, and that’s why today I still feel like the walking dead.
I’ve made it very clear now that I’m sticking to a reasonable distances of 3km and under. And that the reservoir can suck on it until I’m absolutely ready to go back!