No one voted on the poll for the longest time, and I was secretly glad, because then I was going to pick the meditation option. Peaceful, quiet and easy, no? But then one person decided to choose my destiny and voted for jogging.
So be it.
Anyway, ages ago, I actually was something of a jogger. It wasn't really my idea, it was more peer pressure. Other people were doing it and I tagged along almost as a social activity. That time is long past. Still, it left me with a bit of a weird logic when it comes to jogging.
First of all, I can't consider anything less than three miles a decent jog. Granted, I know people who blow out three miles as their warm-up without breaking a sweat, but hey, I'm not up to that standard. So I set three miles as my minimum.
My pace logic was this - a world-class marathoner can churn out five minute miles, so I should at least keep within double that speed. Ergo, a ten minute mile.
So I trotted off to my local 24-Hour Fitness, where I've had a sadly underused membership for years. On the StarTrac treadmill a 10 minute mile pace is level 6. I cranked it up and started jogging. Half an hour later, I made it, finished mile 3. I'm giving myself a "yay!" there, because after mile two, I was hurting. I'm not in any kind of running shape. Looking at myself in the mirror afterwards was scary. My face was red - not cute healthy flush rosy, but oh-god-is-she-going-to-pass-out? rash-red. The trainers passing by with their clients were throwing worried glances my way. I walked an extra lap for cool-down. Still red. I went to the locker rooms, splashed my face. Still red. I walked to the car, drove home, drank iced tea. Still red. I made dinner (tortillas! carbs!), washed the dishes and finally, finally, I look semi-normal.
Undoubtedly, I'm going to be sore tomorrow. What a fun week this should be.