I Don’t Run
I really don’t run. Until last month I think the last time I ran was the last time someone made me. As in … high school. But the other thing I don’t do is diet. And I really like carbs. And I live in the carb capital of the world. Today I had pasta for lunch and pizza for dinner … again. So, something has to give.
So a few weeks ago I decided I would start trying to be a little bit more healthy. Eat a little more green, a little less off white. And start torturing myself, I mean ‘exercising’. And I ran home from work for the first time.
It’s hard to run in Rome. It’s like slaloming (watch out for that pole! and the tree! and the motorino on the sidewalk!) and hurdling (jump over the garbage! and the broken sidewalk!) and steeplechasing (that thing where you have to climb on logs and jump in puddles) and trail running and double dare (avoid the poop on the sidewalks!) …. and I’m not that good at running in the first place. I don’t even like it.
And people stare. A lot. It’s like they’ve never seen anyone run before.
They stare even more in my high end neighborhood of Parioli. It’s like, “If you must run, at least do it in the park where we can’t see you.”
Or maybe it’s more that they never run, but if they were to run, it would be unthinkable to have their neighbors see them do it.
Also it’s now a million degrees out.
I don’t know if I’m going to run anymore.