I have elected to take up running.

I do not have any fondness for it. Like the running clothes I have worn in the past, my memories of running are tired, faded, and mildly malodorous.

In junior high and high school, it was with resignation that I donned my gym clothes (green shorts and tee in junior high; heather grey shorts and navy blue shirt in high school) to run laps. Sweat collected within the mat of my thick hair before pouring forth in steady rivulets down the slope of my forehead, eventually ungracefully splattering on my flushed cheeks. My glasses slipped down my nose and the occasional errant sweat droplet flung itself onto my spectacles, obstructing my view. Though my breaths were synchronized with my footfalls, they did not flow with quiet ease into my lungs; it sounded and felt artificial, mechanical. I envisioned my respiratory system functioning like a soundless accordion generating quarters notes at a clipped allegro. The saliva within my mouth thickened into the consistency of ketchup, my lips dried into the texture of toast, and my tongue felt like a piece of jerky.

Upon crossing the finish line, the sweat dribbled off of my head in earnest as the silent accordion played on, huffing out breathless notes as I felt the blood rush to my skin. It was a warm, uncomfortable radiance; now that the wind resistance had disappeared, heat convection was stymied. I wanted to peel everything off: my moist gym clothes, damp underwear, sticky socks, and heavy shoes. Was there a way to shed my flushed, warm skin?

I didn’t look forward to running. I didn’t enjoy it while I was doing it. And the very, very brief effects of endorphins following the run were simply not rewarding enough for me.

So I decided to give running another try in college.

One of my roommates, an agile, sinewy young man who admired Lenny Kravitz and Jessica Alba, ate dinner off of the cardboard box that once held the futon (before we acquired a real table), and didn’t have enough facial hair to shave even on a weekly basis, was an avid runner.

“Come running with me,” he suggested, probably between guffaws (because if we weren’t laughing at each other, we were laughing at something else equally silly). “It’ll be fun.”

And when he said “Come running with me,” he actually meant, “Let’s go running within the same time period” because there was no way I could keep up with him. He dashed around the outer loops of Drake Stadium as I plodded my way along the middle track, wondering why the heck I was hastening the erosion of the cartilage cushioning my knees. As the sun set behind the West bleachers of the stadium, sending an orange-purple glow over Westwood, we each faithfully completed our revolutions, week after week.

There even came a time when I went running alone—because, really, that’s what we were doing all along: running together, separately.

So I have elected to take up running again. Although I support cardiovascular health, I am in greater support of losing the weight I gained during my intern year. Walking and lindy hop can only burn so many calories. I’m armed with a running schedule from this book, a pair of solid running shoes from the attentive folks from this store, a fresh, unmarked running journal, a public commitment made on this here blog (in following the example of the serial deviant), and a determination that makes steel look as flimsy as silk!

Tomorrow is Day 1.