Running Myself Stupid(er)

Yours Truly, on a Regular Exercise Schedule

   As shocking as it may be to those acquainted with me only socially, I suffer from mood swings. More accurately, those who know me suffer from my mood swings. I have learned to ignore me.    

 
   These casual friends will be surprised to learn this, not because I hide it well, but because I handle it SO poorly that they undoubtedly have just assumed all this time that I was twins, each with a unique personality. (Maybe they are even thinking triplets. Or octuplets.)

 
   The two Me's do not even look identical physically. Bad Me never wears makeup or brushes her hair, and leaves her pajamas on all day. Good Me applies makeup, occasionally uses the dog brush on her nappy mullet hair, and leaves her pajamas on all day. (I have absolutely adorable pajamas.)

  After Skipping Morning Workout

   The person composing this blog is naturally the good twin, because the evil twin would be typing in all caps, with dozens of exclamation points and angry-looking emoticons.

    In an effort to prevent my children from growing up into...well, ME, I recently began forcibly involving them in my jogs. Exercise brings out the pleasant Dr. Jekyll in me. By that, I mean that I suddenly feel the urge to administer shots and insert stitches, and I daresay I do a pretty good job for somebody with nothing but a degree in University Studies. As a nice bonus, physical activity makes me less unbearable. At least to myself.

Ask the Experts. More expert than myself, even:
http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/depression-and-exercise/MH00043

   So, this morning, we all did a 5K. (I did not claim to have RUN a 5K.) My 5-year-old princess kept chanting motivational phrases to herself. "I can NEVER give up. This is something I just HAVE to do!"

   Apparently, it was easier to never give up and complete what she just had to do while riding on Daddy's shoulders. Anyway, we all survived, and actually received the loudest cheers. Because, my daughter was the youngest participant, my husband was the handsomest, and four of the five of our family were dead last. And that made everybody else look oh-so-good.

   My eight-year-old boy is adamant that he will never do it again, but I know different. If he is unfortunate enough to inherit my defective genes, when he falls victim to anxiety or depression, I will drag him out of bed and run him sane. So, he'd just better plaster a smile on his face if he sees me coming at him with jogging shoes.