I continue to run. I try to go three times a week. If I only go once, I figure it's OK, I'll go more next week. Unlike any other time in my life when I've tried to run with any regularity this time I know that I'll keep going back out even after a week away because this time I'm not running for some abstract goal of weight loss or "getting in shape," which really should be translated as "having smaller thighs." (As if.) This time, I'm running for my bones. Back in November I was told if I didn't do weight bearing exercise, they could get weak, so I can hope they don't or I can do weight bearing exercise. Not one to trust the benevolence of the universe, I'm choosing the exercise.
A few weeks ago I read this Gina Kolata piece in the NY Times about women running. In it, she describes a woman who at 48 went out for her first run and came back exhilarated. I have to say, that really hasn't been my experience. But still, I go. And yesterday, for the first time, I went running and about two-thirds of the way through I realized that it didn't totally suck. 'Maybe,' I thought to myself, 'maybe in a year this will actually be fun.' Here's to hoping.