Winded

The grizzly has awoken. The sleeping bear has emerged from his den/basement - fat and happy from his winter hibernation. With an engorged belly full of Taco Bell and girl scout cookies, he has shed his bathrobe, ready to face the sunlight and rejoin society. Spring, he thinks, is upon him.
After a two-month hiatus, I decided to resume my regular workout routine. What follows is a graphic description of last night's attempt at a return to physical fitness. It is not for the squeamish, nor for the faint of heart. However, if my tortuous struggle with explicit laziness intrigues you, by all means, read on...

I had fully expected that I would ease effortlessly back into my running routine. It would kind of be like riding a bike. And it was. Like riding a bike uphill. In quicksand. With ankle weights and a 300-pound man sitting on my chest.
As cold as it was, I had to bundle up for my long winter's jog. I figured that those exercise clothes would be like greeting an old friend after a long absence. It was not like that at all.
My track pants protested against my distended waistline. My fleece pullover strained against my bloated torso. Even my sneakers bulged from my fat feet.
After the rolls had been tucked in and the fabric stretched to the last thread of resistence, I put on my headphones and set my Swatch to countdown mode.
The sweat beaded on my chubby face. My hamstrings ached and twinged with each excruciating step, calves cramping, craving lactic acid. My joints popped and throbbed.
And then I left the driveway.
Not so long ago, I was in fairly decent shape. During a run my heart rate would be elevated but steady. Oxygenated blood flowed to and from my heart through unconstricted arteries with ease. Now getting blood to my heart is like sipping a milkshake through a coffee straw. A Funyon-flavored milkshake. With sprinkles and chunks of candy bar.
My wheezing and labored breaths would make an asthmatic emphysema patient shake his head with pity. There was so much friction generated from my inner thighs rubbing together that my junk very nearly caught on fire.
This went on for three miles. Twenty-seven minutes and thirteen seconds of cardiovascular aerobic exercise. I finally stumbled home - extremities freezing, lungs burning, skin chafing, neighbors pointing and laughing...

I actually lied a littled. My life hasn't been completely devoid of all activity. I have been playing two hours of pick-up basketball every Sunday afternoon, but those embarrassing turnover-fests are best left for another day (Okay, you know how Charles Barkley used to be called the Round Mound of Rebound? Well, I'm more like the Round Mound of Missed Layups and Getting My Shot Blocked).
However, I'm glad that I left the couch and ventured into the winter cold. I hope I've turned over a new leaf. I'm registered for a 5-mile trail run in 18 days. And considering how last year the sadistic race organizers defied the physical characteristics of nature itself to plot the course uphill both ways, I've got my work cut out for me.
And fortunately for you, that should be hi-larious.