The Botticelli Sprint

Me and my rounded limbs went for a run this morning.

When I’m running, I tend to think of myself as Jello in flight.

I’m a soft dimply ball of skin and squidge, and it’s precisely because of this dimple to squidge ratio that I’ve started running.

Post-40, my metabolism has slowed to a Southern drawl, and no amount of dieting seems to shift my excess poundage.

My first run on January 5th lasted approximately 12 seconds. It was brief and I almost passed out from shock.

Today I ran non-stop for 22 minutes, so yay me.

It’s still doesn’t feel natural though.

This morning I found myself being lapped by a young girl who was all sunshine, sinew and sylph.

Lumbering behind her, staring enviously at her perky backside, I worked out that I could comfortably fit a satsuma between her upper thighs. If I’d had one to hand, who knows what chaos may have ensued?

As she pulled away, I picked up speed determined not to be outdone. But I was merely a plump pretender to her Olympic throne.

My chunky thighs pounded into the ground, my arm flaps screamed out for mercy, and my round head turned purple from over-exertion.

I was a Botticelli angel in flight.

Did you know that Botticelli was also known as ‘Il Botticello’, which means ‘The Little Barrel’?

As a curious woman with artistic pretensions, I’m proud to say that I have inherited his singular crown. I barreled after that be-arch, like I was the last barrel in the universe.

Only, about a minute into my attempted sprint I found myself clinging to a railing, folded in half like wasted origami.

Through my melodic wheezing I started to laugh. And I couldn’t bloody stop.

Hysterical with Botticelli fever, I walked back to the car.

It’s safer that way.

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One Comment on “The Botticelli Sprint”

  1. Natacha Von Braun says:

    Keep it up. It will get easier and you’ll get high from the endorphins. Don’t give up and quit judging yourself. It’s just you, and the road and your iPod. Enjoy it.


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