I’m a lapsed athlete. I was that coltish kid in the seventh grade who set the girls’ school record for the mile and was never defeated in her (brief, and admittedly B-league podunk) track career. I played in the Oregon state soccer championship (we lost). This was ten years ago. As recently as three and a half years ago, I was capable of gasping through a six mile run. But since I’ve come to New York, any pretenses I ever had to athleticism have died a quiet death. Maybe this is because Mr. Garter is Triathlete Extraordinaire and I figure he does all the working out for both of us, and for most of the other people on our city block. More likely it’s just because I lack discipline, and having been relatively fortunate in the genetic lottery, I’ve gotten lazy about exercising to make the most of it. But every now and then I build up the urge to go do some physical activity. So I went to the gym.

I ran an easy two miles at a 10-minute pace, or even a little slower. Then I ended with three-tenths at a 7:20 pace. At this point, I was well out of breath and decided I’d call it a day so as not to scupper my chances of willing myself to do it again tomorrow. I don’t like distance running. I’ve never been able to reach the point where it’s exhilirating, relaxing, focusing, meditative, euphoric, or any of those other blissful adjectives my husband claims it is. I find running for its own sake intensely boring; I need a purpose. I need to know I’m doing it so I’ll be able to beat someone else to the ball, the puck, the wire. However, it’s undeniably the cheapest way to get in shape.

Unfortunately, running doesn’t like me, either. When I stumble off the treadmill, it’s not a pretty sight. I turn a shade of red that’s really not suitable for public display. I’ve always had fat, rosy cheeks. People used to tell my mother what a healthy baby I appeared to be. Except for one lady on the ferry who looked down her nose at my poor mom and said (you’ll have to imagine the Lady Catherine de Bourgh voice Mom uses when she tells the story), “My, her cheeks are very red. Have you had her lungs checked?” It would be fine if it were just the cheeks. But it’s the entire face, particularly the nose. Boiled lobsters bow to my superior vermilion. If this were a paint color (and pity the neighbors if anyone were to use said paint), we’d call it Livid Sunburn. And it lasts a long time, people. An hour later I begin to return to normal.

But it’s worse than that. Running makes me stupid. It took me from the time I was in the shower until I was halfway home on the subway to remember who won the World Series this year. (Why was I trying to remember this? I believe it may have been because the frightful shade of my face above my blue T-shirt reminded me of the Red Sox team colors.) And it makes my fingers stupid, which hinders knitting. And that I can ill afford at present.

So I’m hoping I can work some deftness back into them as I pick up my dad’s sweater. I’m determined to finish that Christmas tree and the first raindrop row tonight. We’ll see about a return to the gym tomorrow.