I love running.
I mean, I actually love running. I feel like a superhero or something similar whenever I put my trainers on. I imagine that I am training for some life threatening task or that I am running from a monster or something similar and off I go.
Tonight I went with my sister and I kept finding reasons to carry on running. It literally took me getting a cramp in my calf to admit defeat, when usually I get a bit peckish and think I'd better run home for a sandwich.
I occasionally get these odd bouts of relentless energy and find myself running up and down the stairs at home, cleaning the entire house or dancing like an idiot to Queen songs in my pants, and I've never been quite sure where they come from. My sister's theory is that we, as humans, are all made up of different ancestry, so whereas my boyfriend and her husband are sedentary and like to chill and enjoy their time in a more stoic fashion, sister, myself and our brother prefer to be moving all the time. She decided that because I enjoy mornings watching entire series' of Gavin and Stacey, or Secret Diary of a Call Girl, I must remedy that stillness with excessive movement.
She probably has a point, given that my job is reasonably active and sitting takes up approximately 10% of my waking day. (I just worked this out- if I'm up 15 hours a day, that's 900 minutes, so 90 minutes sitting time on an evening.)
The result of this is that I like to run. I like to watch people run. I enjoy reading about running, and, despite my disinterest in fashion generally, I love to buy running gear (e.g. shoes, hats, socks, base layers, pedometers, apps for my mobile phone).
I even have a favourite running blog!
www.fatgirlrunning.co.uk (not to be confused with my favourite blog written by a runner www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com)
I don't really know where I was going with this, other than waffling on about running, so here's a picture of me doing Race for Life:
I'm not sure what I'm looking at, but I appear to be fascinated by my boobs.