Of all the lovehate relationships I have (which includes ex-boyfriends, three inch heels, and Temple University) the most important one I have is with running. That’s right – the act of running long distances for fun. I started running in high school, partly to get fit and partly to impress my older and obviously awesome brother Tim, the crazy distance running phenom.

I love running because I haven’t found anything quite like the high I get after a great run – either a new PR or destroying a new course. There’s something in that solitude, competing against yourself, a sense of freedom unlike anything. Maybe I haven’t experimented with enough drugs, but I haven’t ruled that out completely.

I hate running because sometimes it’s hard. When you have a crappy run, that’s how you feel. Muscles hurt, organs cramp, things bleed, which is all very attractive let me tell you. But for all the reasons to hate it, which believe me I do, I know I need it in my life which is why I feel remiss in my avoidance of it lately. I’m hoping to get it together so I can come close to running with Laura on the beaches of Sarasota, helping Tim push the lil’ one in her jogging stroller, and perhaps make good on that promise to run the Flying Pig this year (I’m thinking maybe the half-marathon). If it was easy everyone would do it, right?