I recently started running, what with it being so good for me and so many people talking about this great Couch to 5k program and maybe crying a little at that stupid coffee commercial where the mom holds her kindergarten aged daughter’s hand as she runs across the finish line of her first race. KNOCK IT OFF, COFFEE COMMERCIAL. I drink you to just barely make it through my day with 2 kids, not for your magic race-running properties.

It turns out I still feel the same way about running I did when I was 10 – I HATE it. Everything about it. I hate the stupid running sports bras that are supposed to keep me from giving myself 2 black eyes from all the bouncing. I hate the expensive running shoes that the guy at the running store made me buy in a giant clown-shoe size so my feet could “spread”. The whole point of running was to STOP things from spreading anymore than they already have. I hate the way my ankles and knees and legs feel when they hit the pavement. I hate breathing hard. I hate sweating. I hate planning out a route (even more now that the high school track behind my house is closed for renovations and I have to run on the dirty, uneven sidewalk). I hate running while pushing a stroller and stopping every 2 minutes to find out what the toddler is screaming about or try to convince the baby to lie down so she doesn’t flop around like a ragdoll. I hear that’s not so good for babies. If God had wanted humans to run more than absolutely necessary, he would send angry badgers to chase us. Or he wouldn’t have invented cars. Or grocery delivery.

But because so many of my friends – both real and interweb – are runners, I figured I should give it another shot. I downloaded the C25K app. I bought the fancy clown shoes. I strapped my boobs into a bra so tight it was in danger of pushing them through my back. I handed the kids over to my husband and told him I was going stroller-free and would be back in 40 minutes. And I ran. Every time the little bell dinged I took a deep breath and swung my arms and plowed through my discomfort. I didn’t give up. I finished the first day’s workout. And the second. Then a week. Then two weeks. It occurred to me that maybe, possibly, there was something to this running thing after all and maybe, possibly I could be the mom in the coffee commercial who finished a 5k with her proud family looking on.

Then I fell down.

Now I’m on the injured list. My foot hurts when I try to do more than limp my way through the clearance racks at Target (although thank God it feels well enough for that. Priorities, people) so I’ll be on couch-squashing duty for at least another week.

I kind of miss running.