#self-improvement

I think it is forgivable and even appropriate to post unflattering photos of oneself when they show the conclusion of physical exertion. Some may argue that running a 35-minute 5k hardly qualifies, but I disagree. It was hard!

I've had a gym membership ever since I moved back to New York City in 2021 and have had fits of consistent usage, with longer stretches of never visiting. During one of the former, when I thought I was getting pretty good on the treadmill, I set a goal (may have been a New Year's Resolution for 2023) to run a sub-30-minute 5k. Mentioned this to a friend who's a serious runner who has since prodded occasionally to invite me to run one with him.

As I detailed in an earlier post, he extended another invite about a month ago as I was trying to pull myself out of a not-irregular spell of wallowing in self-pity. Like Christ asked the cripple in John 5:6: "Wilt thou be made whole?", better rendered: "Do you want to be healed?" And I had the rare moment of being asked the question and saying "sure".

I started getting up at 5:30 and hitting the treadmill. Did it daily for about a week, then had a rare full week with my son and took a day off and never went back.

By the time race day rolled around on Wednesday I was more or less back in the same state the invitation had found me in and I intended to tell my friend I wasn't going to come, but I figured why not. I can jog a half mile then walk or quit.

But somehow, even though it was a very slow pace, I never stopped "running" even though it sucked.

I was surprised that I managed it, even though my stats are underwhelming... (66 of 70 men in my age group, 314 of 331 men overall, and 492 of 541 for everyone). I'd been hoping for some more casual runners...

Add your own saccharine conclusion of endurance or diligence or else not putting in the work but still managing to get by.

I knew a girl at Cambridge who was half-English and half-German and spoke both languages natively. In discussing useful German words that had been adopted into English (like my oft-used schadenfreude) she lamented that we had not taken in schweinehund which translates literally to pig-dog and refers to one's inner voice that always counsels laziness.

I tend to think I have an especially prolific one.

Working from home with a bed and a window air-conditioning unit mere inches from my workspace does little to muzzle the schweinehund.

I don't think I'm unusual in that; but I do think it probably causes me a bit more agita than the average person and ultimately makes me feel a lack of agency in my own life, which has historically been the underlying issue in any of my life crises. Because it puts my present constantly at odds with my desired future. Obviously my past-self never aspires to spend hours on my bed playing a game on my phone or watching Instagram reels. Just like my present-self never sees any appeal to getting up early or running laps around Tompkins Square Park.

All of which is to preface that yesterday I decided today would finally be the day where I force myself back into a routine of more intentional days. As much as I (or the schweinehund) try to talk myself out of early morning exercise, the inherent value of the thing itself is secondary to the initial, immediate conquest of getting out of bed much too early and doing something miserable.

I aspired to six laps around Tompkins Square Park (having calculated that each one is roughly 0.55 miles, so six would be something like a 5k), but settled for two today (with a third walked in-between) since I've gotten even more out of shape than I was the last time I settled into this sort of routine.

There wasn't any sort of euphoria in it. Nor in the breakfast afterwards, nor the Bible reading nor DuoLingo rounds, nor the shower, nor the New Yorker readings over coffee. Mostly there's just a low-level tiredness. But if there's a point to any of this, it's that the pleasure of the present-self doesn't amount to much. It isn't lasting. I know that last night's self that worried whether I would have the wherewithal to get up with the alarm would be happy. And I imagine that tonight's self, feeling deserving of the bed he crawls--exhausted--into, will be as well.

Fresh week.

How hard can it be?