I jog when the mood hits me, which is never on the weekend. Or a national holiday. And at no time if it’s raining, snowing, sleeting or cold outside. As it so happens, the mood hasn’t hit me for a few months. But it struck this morning (that’s my other condition; I only jog in the morning), and I halfheartedly complied by dragging my butt out of bed, running a brush through messy hair and stuffing myself into some jogging clothes. Jogging clothes always make me feel more athletic and in the running mood.
I’d only managed about a quarter mile when my boobs felt like they were going to fall out of my flimsy, must-be-meant-for-a-much-smaller-cup-size spandex sports bra. I could only imagine that my dog, a golden retriever named Buddy, was feeling something similar because a few turds fell out of him along the way.
I couldn’t stop to pick up the little dollops he left behind, although I would’ve liked to; I was convinced it would have been the neighborly thing to do. But I was on a roll and I couldn’t break in mid-stride. Besides, I’m banking on a car running them over before most of the neighborhood starts their day and no one will be the wiser.
Maybe the results of my run were less than perfect. Maybe my form could’ve been better or I could’ve pushed myself harder, or not. But I realized, one shouldn’t wait life on perfect. I’ve been too busy making excuses instead of making it happen. I’ve been sacrificing my mind, my body and my soul by waiting on my idea of perfect. I’m sure running isn’t the only area of my life where I’ve been waiting on perfect. Another lesson to learn.