Running, I hate you. Regards, Hannah.

I am training for a half marathon.

This will shock all people who know me as I am:

1. Lazy
2. Shit at running
3. Asthmatic
4. Have only just learnt how to spell no. 3 through iPhone auto correct. Technology sure is something, isn't it?


I decided to train for this event like a sensible person. However I have found that instead of finding it an enjoyable and rewarding experience, instead I fully HATE AND DETEST 98% of all running I do.

And today I had two prime examples of why I dislike running so much.

Example #1:

To begin with, I'm running all happy and feeling like I look all fit and stuff. This is usually at the very start of my run and I amuse myself by imagining all the cars whizzing past are thinking how professional and awesome I look, and then the drivers would be overwhelmed by an intense guilt that they have not run in 15 years.

But then, suddenly, out of nowhere, I get this deep, intense BURNING sensation in my CHEST.

And for a moment I think:

'This is it. I'm going to die right here right now in this stupid fluroscent yellow top and restrictive leggings.'

So after I have hobbled/ 'jogged' past all other pedestrians on the road (just to keep up appearances) I duck into a driveway and grasp at my poor, defeated chest.

( And before you giggle, 'grasp my chest', you dirty minded people, has got nothing to do with me fondling my honky honks, it is merely a physical representation of how much pain is going on in the chest region.)

But nay, it is not a heart attack...this is not the end for me.

 It is ...stitch.

Stitch. Stitch is not the word for such torture. I suggest we rename it 'stab' or 'surgery whilst awake'.


Example #2: 

This example is not quite about running, but other people vs running.

Once I have limped back to my home, my sanctuary, my abode, I fall into the sofa and pine a drink from whomever is near.

But instead of a pat on the shoulder and an ice cold beverage, I get horrendous abuse from the know-it-alls I live with.

'Stitch? Ah that's because you... *insert completely scientific reason for my stitch that person has just made up*'

'Aching? That's because you....*did not do some sort of exercise that they have NEVER EVER done*'

Eurgh.  

Nose hurting is it? That's because, with all the strength I can muster, I've just bopped you in it with my feebly weebly arm.


I can't wait till this is over and I can get back to my normal, lazy existence.

Fuck You, Snow

This morning I woke up with an anger unknown to most sensible human beings.

It was intense and has not been relieved all day. And that is because there is no way of removing the thing which has caused me such great sorrow. Because, dear readers, it's the weather.

Snow, in late March (yes I know, please do not get me started) has decided to rock up and spray its white shit all over my crib, my car; even my cat if it stands still for more than twenty seconds.

And you know what? I'm taking a stand.

I refuse to enjoy this snow. This snow will hold no magic or wonder for me.

This snow will not pressurise me with its softness to sit in it and make angelic shapes.

This snow will not cause me to spend hours battling with the elements to make a snowman which looks nothing like an actual human being.

This snow will not be 'pretty, lovely' or 'just super!'

This snow will be disgusting, annoying and plain pointless.





So, with that, all I have left to say is: 

Fuck you snow, fuck you.