The Botticelli SprintPosted: March 17, 2011
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.