Running seems to be a bit of a trendy thing to do these days – stagger out to buy milk on a Saturday morning and you’ll see hundreds of the healthy buggers galloping along the street or jaunting around the park, making the rest of us look bad.
I bloody hate running. Or jogging. Or indeed anything which involves pounding up and down (ooh er), pelvic floor straining and breasts wildly out of control and scaring the children.
Of course, Alpha Mummy LOVES running. It’s her “me time”; it maintains her mind and body fitness, and keeps her looking young and fabulous. She does half Marathons FOR FUN!
I, Beta Mummy, am not so keen. Running, for me, is more a form of publicly-displayed masochistic self-flagellation. A while back I decided that in order to maintain my cake addiction without in fact turning into a female Homo Sapien version of Jabba the Hutt, I would have to do some exercise. The gym was a bit expensive, and those fitness DVDs make me want to throw things at my TV, so I thought I’d try the Couch to 5K programme. Now I would actually really recommend that programme, in all seriousness, if you think you might like to take up running. But unsurprisingly, my attempts at running tend to look rather more like the Beta version of events, than the Alpha.
I have concluded that I am simply not built to run. I’m not sure what sport I am suited to, but it is one that does not require two sports bras and a Tena lady. Suggestions on the back of a postcard, please.