Let's get physical.

People say that exercising makes you happy (“And happy people just don’t shoot their husbands,” - Elle Woods). I on the other hand experience what I’ve come to call endorphin rage. When I exercise you know, those four to five times a year, I get angry. Really angry. I turn mean(er).

It becomes most pronounced while running. I absolutely don’t understand why people view this as a desirable activity nor how on God’s green Earth some people drag themselves through marathons. Pain? Humiliation? Yes, please?

Claiming one’s self a runner is a big ole masochistic flag to me.

Despite this at least once a year I try to become one of those people. (Let’s remember, I went through med school. If that’s not an occult endorsement for a masochist facet of me I don’t know what is.)

My fiance, The Irreverent Reverend, was a jock in high school (I know, what’s he doing with me. He was the jock who would rather talk about the emotional turmoil and social injustice of demonizing his opponents. Aaaand there we go. Back to nerd-dom.). And since I believe our (the collective Our of American twenty-somethings) personalities and way of interacting with the world are solidified in the high school years, he naturally continues to be fairly jock-ish. (Not to be confused with jock itch.)(In case you were reading aloud.)

He runs. I love him, so I try to run too. Five minutes in that love comes into question.

Any passer by catching an earful would swear I just found out he accidentally got my high school nemesis pregnant the way I rail at him, roll my eyes and generally become the worst version of myself. It only gets worse the more distance we log. After we did five miles (… a few months ago) I was fairly sure a preemptive divorce was in the works.

Anyway. My point!

In order to make this new Spark endeavor work I need to find some kind of exercise that doesn’t make me want to die. So, again reaching back to what I enjoyed in high school, I decided to try dancing.

Sure I haven’t touched a ballet barre in a good 12 years, but hey, I can still stand on tiptoe! How else would I reach the sea salt chocolate bars I hide from myself on the top shelf?

I guess I did do a few Broadway Dance Center drop-ins while I was in NYC… but those classes included one armed push-ups and frankly, I don’t think that’s dancing. That’s torture.

At any rate, I’m going to hit up some beginner jazz for teens and adults tonight at the local center. Spirit fingers crossed I don’t use what limited breath I’ll have to curse out the 14 year olds for being “fit” and “healthy.” Jerks.