Running Wild

Let’s face it. Running is not the best look.

Sweat-drenched t-shirt; a hair-do that looks like you’ve been dragged through a hedge by your laces and then been dunked face down in a pond; followed by a highly unsexy cacophony of coughs and splutters that reverberate painfully within a 5 mile radius. It just aint pretty. And if you are trying to emulate those fit bastards on the cover of Runner’s World magazine when you step out the front door – forget it. Those people are non-human cyber-runners, technologically constructed and displayed to make us mere mortals continually aspire to unachievable goals – i.e. never ever looking that good in a skimpy running outfit.

But you know what? What the fuck. Keeping it real is what it’s all about. We may be panting and coughing up the previous night’s roll-ups and our heads may be thumping from having necked a couple of pints too many – with a bit of gut wobble to boot – but at least we have stories to tell; fun that’s been had.

These polished Runner’s World type super-humans (that do actually exist, I’ve seen them in Sydney) are probably boring as hell. I recall spotting one of these preened gazelle-like creatures caning it at speed along Bondi beach – glazed toned muscles, perfect abdominals, slick frizz-free barnet – and after off-loading a boo-hooey moan about myself to my male friend, he turned to me and said: “Oh shut the fuck up Lulu. I bet she’s never got wasted in a club and snogged a stranger”.

So whatevs, I may not have a six pack or look like a running super model, but who gives a frig? I certainly know which side of the indulgence camp I’d rather stay pitched on. What about you?

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