And not just a little bit.
I hate, loathe, despise, and abominate running.
Dancing. That's what I like. I could dance and dance until the moon turned blue. Even at my age. I used to dance six hours a day. It was like breathing to me. And I was in wicked-awesome shape, too. I could run up hundreds of stairs without the slightest gasp. Had quadruceps on my quadruceps. And I almost had a 6-pack (Okay, fine. It was a four-pack. But I wasn't on a food-free diet, and I wasn't doing steroids. So, you know, I kind of think it was legit.)
That was then. This is now. Now I have four kids and no six hours a day to dance. But I've gotta move, or my back freezes up like teenage boy on his first date, and my ribs go out and leave me to spend the evening by myself.
So I run. And I do it every day. And it bores the living shortcake out of me because there are no leaps, no battements, no voltas, no botafogos, and definitely no heel-turn-spins. Also no buck-rhythm time steps. My four-pack is a one-pack, my quads look like my hams (which look like the honey-baked ham we had for dinner), and I wheeze jumping up from the couch to answer the phone. But I run.
So, this last weekend I was whining to my husband about it as I went out the door to drag myself through a few miles of not dancing and not having fun while not dancing. And he said "Why do you hate running?"
After looking at him like, duh, I said, "Because I don't have fun doing it."
Then he said, "Why? Why don't you have fun doing it?" (this from the man who just finished a 100-mile foot race through the Rocky Mountains. Yeah. We'll discuss his mental fitness later.)
So I said, " . . . . . . . . "
And he just looked at me right back.
Finally I realized he was telling me that if I wasn't having fun running, it was my own fault. I could have fun running, if I decided running was a fun thing to do. Like, fun because it was time spent by myself; me time, if you will. Fun because I do it in the morning and mornings are peaceful. Fun because my legs are moving and my lungs are moving and this tells me I'm alive, and at my age that's a good thing. Fun because my blood pumps and my muscles hurt the next day, which means they're getting strong. And above all, I grow a butt and it fits into my jeans instead of hanging out somewhere around the backs of my knees.
OH! *insert sound effect that accompanies epiphanies here* So like, whether or not I enjoy what I am doing has to do with the attitude I bring to it. I decide whether I hate, loathe, despise, and abominate it or not. And if I do, I shouldn't be surprised that it isn't fun.
Huh. Well. I think life should be fun. So, rather than waiting for someone else to make it fun, I'm going to make it fun. I'll start by grinning at the gym tomorrow. I hope it fools my legs into thinking they're doing a wicked Samba on the treadmill. Because that would be fun!
(Now, if you feel like it, tell me what you do to make odious tasks more enjoyable. I'd love to learn!)