Keep in mind that I also ate cookies for breakfast this morning

I started running when I was eleven. I ran around my subdivision then later extended my route up the street and into the neighboring community. Most eleven-year-olds don’t go jogging for fun, but I was in 6th grade—deep into the teen magazine phase—and I knew that I should exercise if I wanted to be pretty and kiss boys. So I tried running. And I discovered that I really liked it. I’m not what one would ever call “athletic” or even “coordinated,” but running is just an extension of walking, and I can handle that.  Well, except for the one time I fell face-first onto the sidewalk. In front of the local college's entire freshman class.

I love running. It puts me in a good mood. Those first few miles— before I start to sweat or breathe heavily, before my leg or my foot or my back or whatever it is that’s going to bother me today hasn’t yet realized that it isn’t in the mood to do this—go by so smoothly. I move so easy and fast, I can’t think of anything in the world that feels better. Well, anything that I can do with my clothes on.

I’m not very good at running. In fact, given the frequency with which I do it, I’m downright awful. The longest distance I tried was thirteen miles, and that was in high school. Nowadays, I stick to something between three and six miles. But I do run every day. I don’t like running with a partner. I don’t like running inside. I don’t like running on a track. I don’t like running in a race. I prefer to run outside, alone, and always to music. I run in the rain (which I like) and the snow (which I don’t) and the heat (at least I can get a tan). I run the same route over and over again, and when I’m forced to change it, even temporarily, I react like a small child who has missed her naptime. I can’t tell you how much I hate those Race for the Cure people, they ruin my life at least once a week.

When I started running, I used a Walkman. Then I switched to a CD player. Now I use an iPod. But I think the biggest change over the years has been my gradual ability to spit in public.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but least once a run— two if it’s winter—I have to stop for a second and hock up a big wad of phlegm. Yes, I decided to write about phlegm on the Internet. What about it?

When I was eleven, I was so horrified by the idea of spitting in public—and by “public” I mean the seven or eight cars that passed me on the tree-lined suburban street with a speed limit of 25 mph—that I used to wait until no one was around before I’d lean over a shrub and let it go. I could spit in front of other people during high school track practice because everyone else all did it too, but it was a different story when I ran by myself. When I lived in Nashville, my only rule was that I couldn’t spit directly in front of another pedestrian or anywhere near Ben Fold’s house.  But in New York, I just don’t care.  There are too many people here, I will never have a solitary moment on a run, so I spit right in front of them. Sometimes I even do it on the sidewalk because there’s no grass. And the thing is, no one seems to notice.

In New York, I’ve seen people having sex on a park bench. I’ve seen a man—a MAN—walk down the street in a leather miniskirt cut into little strips so that it resembles a limp ceiling fan. Once while riding the subway, I heard two girls discussing how they each caught herpes from the same boy. I’ve seen countless old people fall over. I live near an ER so I’m pretty sure I’ve seen some ambulance passengers who didn’t make to the hospital it in time. I saw a homeless man vomit all over himself in front of a Dunkin Donuts. I watched a vendor pick an apple out of the gutter, rub it on his shirt, and put it back on his fruit stand. I listened to a couple break up in a bagel shop. Once, while running, I saw a woman “trotting” around Central Park, dressed up in an S&M horse costume, complete with hooves and a tail. So I really don’t care if I spit in public anymore.

I also walk my dog in mismatched pajamas, right in front of the largest cathedral in the world. Families from Iowa exit their tour bus and the first thing they see if me, in Cat-in-the-Hat boxers, bending over to pick up my dog’s poop with a plastic bag. I don’t really mind it. I just hope I don’t make it into any of their vacation photos.

Comments

[Barzelay]

"Well, anything that I can do with my clothes on."

Claire, that may be the first time I've ever heard you reference sex in a non-ironic, positive way. I thought you didn't like sex. In fact, I am still thinking that you only said the above thing just to be funny, and that it isn't really true. You'd really rather be running, or playing with Molly, or even blogging for "fun," rather than having sex. I guess maybe living in a different city from Paul is making you more aware of what you're missing.

[Claire]

Sex? Who said anything about sex? I was talking about a bubble bath.

(you know what, Barzelay, I come from a long line of rigid WASPS and you're just going to have to live with my tight-lipped prudishness)

[Barzelay]

And now I've been informed of why my comment was actually much more awkward than I intended.

[Paul]

Damn, for a second there I was hoping that you were right, Barzelay, but apparently bubbles are more fun than me.

Also, she is lying about that. She has never once taken a bubble bath since I have known her.

[Claire]

That's cause the idea of lying in my own bath water until it turns from hot to lukewarm does not appeal to me, no matter how many soap suds there are.

[Paul]

But you just posted right above that you like bubble baths. How can I ever read this blog if I now know it is just filled with lies!

[Claire]

What can I say? Sarcasm directed at Barzelay is rarely truthful.