Jogging

The following is an essay I wrote for Language Arts class when I was a Junior in high school:

Jogging is completely and utterly pointless.

I reached this conclusion about 10 minutes ago after deciding that sitting on my ass listening to ‘Rent’ only made me jealous of Broadway actors and their killer physiques. As I rounded my first corner of the night, I realized that I had no motivation to continue. Why was I running? Was there someone following me? I quickly turned around and realized that yes, there was someone following me.

Now keep in mind that with 20/150 vision, walking around at night is like being tripped out on shrooms; everything has a face and everything is after you. I realized that the person following me was, indeed, a white plastic hefty bag tied to a lamp post. Left with a surge of adrenaline from my brush with death, I continued on my journey through the evergreens of Wedgwood.

I took a few more strides when something horrible happened. My heart started to hurt.

Why? Why can’t I have a normal body? One that doesn’t give up while I’m attempting to climb to my fourth period after lunch at Taco Del Mar?

I stopped for a second, thinking about how pathetic I was. Even my fat friends can run. I’m not fat. I took a deep breath in and poked at my heart, trying to calm it down. “Come on buddy. You’re clogged with Pepperidge Farm cookies and I’m just trying to help.” I walked a block and continued down the sidewalk towards Ravenna.

I tried to establish an inner rapport that would help encourage me to run. I’m a very needy person (socially), and I realized that the only way to motivate myself tonight would be to exploit my recent string of fucked up friendships. “Look at you, you scrawny little shit. No one likes someone so skinny. That’s why Jane decided she’d rather spend tonight hanging out with her 8th grade sister than watching a movie with you. Not because you invited yourself over and then cried into the phone when she politely refused.”

The painful motivation seemed to work. I flew down city blocks, reaching a heart rate equitable to that of a pre-diet Jared Fogle. The fun ended when my shoelace came untied and I fell into a bush. It was at that moment, while wobbling on one foot and attempting to tie my silver and gray New Balance whilst staring into the eyes of a tree monster, that I realized I never wanted to run again. Shrooms, perhaps. But when it comes to physical exercise, I prefer tapping my toe to a song from ‘Rent’.

My pinkie toe.