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I talked myself into hitting the streets and going for a run today at lunch.

The sun was shining, the ice and snow had been diminished to slushy piles, and the temperature was a balmy 37 degrees. How could I resist?

After about three minutes, I was feeling pretty confident. This is easy. A breeze! Why didn’t I start running a month ago? There were some warm days in January, right? Why couldn’t I have just run straight through the winter, snow and all? Maybe I’ll run a full three miles. I bet I can run a full three miles, without stopping to walk. Maybe I’ll do this every day, from now on. I’m sure I’ll be up to five miles by next week. Maybe I’ll sign up for a marathon.

Then I came to a hill. And I remembered I hadn’t run in four months. Ugh. The marathon suddenly became two-and-a-half miles, then two, with a walk break at the half.

I guess all those positive thoughts in the first three minutes were the endorphins kicking in.

Endorphins or not, I really enjoyed it. I felt alive. It was great to get out of the house and out of my head. My body feels good, too, if a little stiff. I feel less guilty about eating seven (I’m not lying) Tagalongs last night while I waited for the State of the Union to begin. And I still think that I’d like to do this every day. Well, most days, at least. Especially if that means I get to keep snacking on Girl Scout cookies.

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