There is a rumor afoot that Mr. Boy and I might attempt a 5-K this spring.  To be determined.  My calendar says "buy running shoes" this coming Saturday, which I had written in last summer, in a moment of hopefulness, when I purchased my academic-year calendar.   I remembered how to do long division in order to discover a 5k was more miles than I had previously thought.  

For the record, my competitive running career lasted from 1986 to 1987, with a brief renewal for a biathalon sometime in the mid-1990’s.  And my running is no more impressive than my singing or my bird-watching.  Enjoyment and ability do not always coincide. 

However, last winter when I tried to resume running (verdict: pregnancy and running don’t mix), I discovered that Mr. Boy is so much fun.  He doesn’t run like a boring old adult.  We only went on a few runs together before I reverted to other less ambitious forms of exercise, but it was something I gave up only grudgingly.  I am hopeful the body will cooperate a little more this year, and if so, maybe there’ll be a race in our future.  Maybe.

Too much talent  LP has a particular sort of gift for dance:  She can watch a sample of any style of dance, and then capture it’s essence with remarkable accuracy.  Clogging, tap, ballet, Native American, Indian, Hula  — she can run through her repertoire, and informed onlookers will be able to easily identify each genre. 

This was delightful until today, when I made the mistake of telling the kids I was going to exercise for my 20 minutes, instead of just sneaking away like I usually do.  She enthusiastically runs back to the bedroom and starts doing that other genre of dance, which I sadly recognized immediately as "mom’s aerobics".  Oh dear.  Is that what I look like?    Good news: I had already been in the habit of pulling the blinds.  Neighbors are thus spared the trauma.