My wife, Claire, is a marathon runner, and the closest I get to actually running myself is hurrying to the bathroom when a bowel movement is crucial. It is more like a brisk walk while trying to keep my cheeks together. She runs ten miles a day and twice that on the weekends. I 'run' errands at a walk at best, so I am supportive of her sports interests, but driving along side is the closest I come to running up mileage.
Last weekend she came home and introduced me to her new running partner, and if I were picking for her it wouldn't be him. He is too healthy, too muscular, too pretty, and far too virile for my money. I would pick someone more in the Andy Devine category. I don't need her to be running with Cary Grant, or Paul Newman, or Chris Pratt. Not that I am insecure, but wet tissue paper is more substantial than I am when it comes to going up against the likes of Mr. Wonderful.
On their first time "working out" together it took them nearly three hours to do what was billed as an hour run. Then they ended up running by his house for a bathroom break that took thirty minutes, but who is counting. Not that I am accusing her of fucking and running, but who knows what can be done in a short time by people in incredibly good condition.
Okay, I admit it, I could start working out with her, so she wouldn't need a running partner, but then her waiting for me every block wouldn't be a big selling point. I would have to do a marathon relay where I ran a block and handed off to someone who does the other twenty-six miles.
If I wanted a one hour workout I would watch Dual Survival for 60 minutes. My idea of fun is not puking my guts out after doing something I hate for an hour. So I am a lazy ass, and do they give out metals for it. So how did a guy like me get a girl like her? Luck, I guess, bad luck in her case.