on athleticism.

I have written many, many times on my attempts to become athletic, or, at the very least, to get in shape.

There was that time I was cut from the basketball team. My attempts at the Couch to 5k program. The all-too-brief gym membership.

I feel like I've kind of tried it all.

So this year, something new: a goal to exercise every day for 28 days.

You know what? I didn't finish that either.

But — and I think this is an important but — all of a sudden I have a desire to exercise. And since I honestly don't know the last time that's happened, I'm considering it a success. 

I'm walking or jogging or doing my Bar Method DVD nearly every day. Sometimes I walk with a friend and her baby (it's a great way to catch up, and I think it's fun for her because it gets them both out of the house); other times I put on the iPod and jog by myself or with Jordan.

A couple of friends and I were talking last week about the push and pull of exercise, this desire to be athletic, to be one of those women who gets up every morning filled with joy at the thought of hitting the pavement in their Lululemon workout clothes, the glow of the sun reflected off each perfectly toned leg muscle. And then there is the reality, which is me, with my mix-and-match workout attire, running with my iPhone hidden in the side of my underwear, stopping every five minutes or so to make sure it doesn't fall out the bottom of my shorts. The reality is that as I run — apparently very much resembling a chicken — I'm trying to figure out how best to pace myself so I can make it home without passing out. Once home, the pride that has sprung up in awe of my newly found athletic ability disappears when I look in the mirror and realize I look like an absolute crazy person... and I'm standing still. Who knows what I look like when I'm actually jogging?

Here's the thing, though: I don't think I care all that much. So I look a little ridiculous. The point is, I'm moving, right? I'm up off the couch, and no, I'm not a marathon runner, and I don't particularly enjoy myself when I'm out and about in the doing, but is that really the point? Isn't the point that I'm taking care of myself and I'm trying?

 

I'm exercising pretty regularly, and I've got new tennis shoes and a bright orange water bottle and This American Life on my iPhone as motivation.

Oh, and yes, I've signed up for a 5k.

The Color Run in Atlanta, to be exact.

And I love it because it looks fun and doable and not at all concerned with finish times or trophy winners.

Maybe I'll walk most of the way. Maybe I'll jog the whole thing.

I don't really know.

But I do know that last week, on the way home from work, I thought: I can't wait to get home and get outside.

And that, my friends, is a pretty big step.