of running and fuzzy math

Over the years I have found myself enjoying a hobby I never thought I would.  Something I never was, and still am not, very good at.  But it’s cheap, a stress-reliever, and prevents me from sitting on my couch every night FBing until my eyes bleed.  I have a love affair with running. 

It’s been a long arduous road, but now I am training for my next half-marathon race.  Really, a person should not have to run more than 13.1 miles for any reason other than to escape violent death.  I squeeze in my runs a couple nights a week after the kids have gone to bed.  As it is dark by then, as I live in an older neighborhood (ahem), and as I am female sans mace, I have taken to running the track at my old high school.  The tall black wrought-iron fence and bleachers surrounding the track somehow make me feel invisible against evildoers, kidnappers, and the like.  Mmm hmm.   It just seems safer than running on the streets with hooligans likely hiding behind every stop sign. 

But there is a special kind of torture in running this track, for several reasons: it’s conveniently located across the street from a greasebomb chain restaurant and a legendary decades-old diner.  Running 24 times around this track with restaurant grease hanging in the air is like crack to my nose.  I press on with my run, mentally talking smack at the restaurant fryers as they taunt me with their fried cheese balls, cheeseburgers, cheese fries, and cheesy chocolate malts.  All the while trying to contain my bowels as for whatever reason, running is nature’s diuretic for me, oh, somewhere around mile five. 



I worked briefly here in high school, and yes, I wore
the rockin' poodle skirt like any self-respecting carhop should.

Which segues nicely into my final thought: guilty pleasures.  This gal has somewhere in the neighborhood of 1239732506745 dozen of them, including anything fried and anything cheese.  I justify to myself that since I run occasionally, I can indulge occasionally.  It all cancels out in the end.  What’s your guilty pleasure?  Do tell.