So the point of this is that there's even less reason for us to avoid jogging as a primary source of exercise. I've been pretty good about getting out a few times a week anyway. But for my wife, who spends all day at home with our children and several others, it's understandably easier for her to fall into evening complacency. But having a jogging stroller, in fact, serves multiple purposes: 1. The kids get out of the house. 2. The adults get in a workout.
Pretty good plan, and it was first put into action this week.
The course: 1.62 miles to Prairie Village's Franklin Park.
The team: One solo jogger, one jogger pushing the two little guys, and Dominic on his bike.
The plan: A steady-paced trek one way, followed by a 20- to 30-minute stay at the park to appease the boys; then back home following the same course.
The first half-mile or so is a slight but steady incline, so it was clear to me that I should be behind the stroller for the start. The wife insisted otherwise, but it only took a couple of blocks before I convinced her to hand over the reins. I ended up keeping them the rest of the way.
The boys enjoyed seemed to enjoy the ride, and I thought it went pretty smoothly as well. My stamina was good, there was limited traffic on the sidewalks, and the weather - although quite humid - could have been a lot worse.
So I felt good about myself as I neared the park ahead of my wife and my bike-riding stepson ... that is until a truck full of douche bags had to ruin it all.
I was actually already on the park grounds at this time but hadn't yet reached the playground equipment which was our true destination. As I cruised along the path at a solid pace, red-faced and in a fully sweat-soaked shirt, a wise-ass young bastard leaned out the window of his truck to offer these sarcastic words of encouragement:
"Way to go, soccer dad!"
That mother fucker. There was a time (and that time may not have been too long ago) when I wouldn't have hesitated to shout something highly profane right back at him. And, hell, as inconsistent as I can be, that time may have just been two minutes before then ... or maybe even two minutes later. Depending on my mood, I may have decided to lock the brakes on the stroller, find a nice baseball-sized rock and chased that fucking truck until I was within good striking distance.
But in this case I let it go, biting my lip and accepting my defeat in the form of this shout of ridicule. My wife, of course, got a great kick out of this and felt the need to quickly share this event with my mom and my sister-in-law. I can only assume that their initial reactions when reading about it via text message was the same uproarious laughter that I've seen when I've told others about it.
I'm officially a fucking punchline.
What really chaps my ass is the timing. At the moment of that asshole's exclamation, I was actually feeling pretty good about myself, and that certainly hasn't always been the case recently. As I've mentioned before, and those who know me well can back it up, my mood -- everything from my self-image to my general demeanor -- can change on a fucking dime. But lately there's been a little more of a lean toward the worse.
I've always been a rather young-looking guy. In fact, when asked my age, I used to sometimes tell people to consider how old I look, then add five or six years. But I've recently told my wife that I think I'm starting to look my age for the first time in my life. At the age of 32, I think I'm starting to show the wear.
The solution to all of my concerns, of course, is to just fucking loosen up. I know. And I've been told that for a long freaking time. If I weren't such a high-stress, sensitive lunatic, I probably wouldn't have been feeling ill all day leading up to my jog. (My family insists that a majority of the ailments I suffer from are brought on by stress.) I probably also wouldn't have allowed my blood pressure to spike just because of something a high school or college-aged assclown had to say about me running with my kids. And if I were a little more laid I probably wouldn't need to be worried about how much I appear to have recently aged.
That's the answer to everything: Just fucking relax. It's all so simple.
Well, not for me. I'm still fucking pissed. I hope you're not too concerned about the second leg of my jogging stroller experience. For all intents and purposes, the story ends here.
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