exercise

This morning I saw a horrifying thing as I walked into the grocery store. A man was running by. He wasn't particularly young, but he was built like an athlete, and the look on his face said he'd probably been running a while. It was pouring rain, so it was impossible to tell how sweaty he was. But - and here's the horrifying part - his nipples were bleeding. He was wearing a white shirt and there were two streaks of bright red running down the front. I couldn't help but stare, though I don't think he noticed me. I don't even know if he noticed his own problem. Yowza.

I am not an athlete. I was never athletic, never inclined that way. I was scrawny and wimpy and could never aim worth crap to throw or catch a ball or even a frisbee. I suck at hackey sack (though it hasn't stopped me from trying on occasion). In college, though, I decided that regular exercise was a good idea, so I started running. I usually went alone so no one would hear how hard I was panting, though by the time Stuart and I were getting serious, we would run together at night. By the time I graduated I ran 4 miles every day.

Since moving to Wisconsin nine years ago, the exercise regime has had its ups and downs. For one thing, it's really hard to run outside in the winter when the temps are below zero and the sidewalks are covered in ice and snow. Some people do anyway, but they're the hard-core crazy types. In grad school, I biked to campus in just about every kind of weather except thunderstorms. As long as it was above 5 degrees outside, I even biked in the cold. I tried swimming in the early mornings for a semester, but it was just too grueling to leave the apartment at 6:30 a.m. and jump in the pool. Then we had kids and it all kind of went to hell. Exercise is such a time-suck, especially when you've only got a couple of precious hours in between meals and bedtime to make it happen.

I'm trying, though. I might even join the Y because 1) they have childcare and 2) they have pretty decent preschool programs I would like Daniel to be a part of this year. Now that I am 30 and have the postpartum paunch, it's more important to me than ever to maintain some level of fitness. When you're 20, you're basically invincible. But when you're 30, you really can tell whether or not you ran this week. You feel better, you look better if you exercise. It's frustrating that I don't have the same endurance, though. This afternoon it was warm and muggy, perfect weather for going to the pool, so we all went and I swam 500 meters and it totally kicked my ass. That's, like, 5 times across and back. I was gasping for air and had to stop, even though I had wanted to swim farther. I've been running again, too, though not terribly frequently, which means I don't go more than a couple miles. Sometimes I do a few sprints to make it worthwhile.

What's funny about all this is that until recently I didn't hold any standards for myself when it came to exercise. I was just glad to be outside and moving around. For months after Anya was born, I figured that all the kid-lifting and chasing and running up and down the stairs to do laundry was at least keeping slothdom at bay, if not keeping me in shape. But now I have goals, such as they are. I want to run faster, swim farther, bike more. Not that I plan to start competing or joining any sports teams or anything. That'll be the day.