I am 27 years old.
One might assume I’m old enough to know the real me.
(Spoiler alert: the real me is a liar.)
But 8 months ago, when a group email went out asking who wanted to sign up for a zombie 5k, I spent a moment thinking about it and then said yes.
After all, there were so many months left.
Surely, given half a year, I’d change my lifestyle and take up daily running.
(Have I ever mentioned I hate running?)
(It’s a pure and unending hate, one that could inspire poetry or lead to a villain origin story.)
Last Wednesday, I was playing tennis with my dad.
(I play tennis with my dad on Wednesdays.)
(If by play, you’re assuming I mean he hits tennis balls at me and I frantically run around, attempting to hit said balls in his general direction, good assumption.)
And I thought to casually ask, “so, if you had someone who was about to compete in a shortish distance run but had no training or ability, what advice would you give?”
(I figured my dad might have advice, having taught high school track for many years.)
(There is, in his basement, an All American plaque given to a student that he then gave to my dad to thank him for being the best coach he ever had.)
(He might have secret running cheat codes, was really what I was looking for.)
“Don’t do it.”