I love, love, love to run. I do, I do. Not only is running my ticket to fitness, entertainment, and some semblance of a social life, running has turned into a necessity. I manage chaos with a run, my many psychological demons are caged on a run, I solve problems during a run, and I get that much needed dose o' dopamine after a run. The Winder once hit the runner on the rabid by saying, "If you don't beat yourself up first with a run, your mind will get the best of you later," and another friend once said, "There isn't a single problem around that can't be fixed by a 5-mile run."
Running, or any exercise for that matter, is great medicine -- a necessary aid for starting a day off right. However, the urgent necessity of anything brings to light (or dark) a certain word. That word is addiction.
Is running -- my running -- an addiction? That was the topic of this morning's 10-miler, which, in its minuscule 19 degrees and yack-it-up pollution, might prove all by itself that my little habit of pounding-the-pavement is indeed an addiction.
So is it? Let's invistigate that a bit. The on-line dictionary at www.dictionary.com defines addiction as "the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming, as narcotics, to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma."
We might as well just stop there. If I were to quit this running stuff, it would undoubtedly cause "severe trauma." Case closed. I'm addicted.
Certain literary pizzazz guidelines would say I should stop there, with a gut-wrenching actualization and a heart-felt confession. Let the reader stew over that, the guideline would say. Let the reader internalize your brave and ferocious announcement. Let them feel the "poig" in "nant." Okay, so that's just a bunch a bull that I made up. Great isn't it? What do I know about literary guidelines, anyways? Nothing, that's what. But I do know a thing or two about pizzazz -- it's just like pizza only the "a" is moved up a notch, and two more "z"s are added for spice, just like jalapenos or red paper flakes are added to pizza for spice.
Here's what I want to say next, so I'm just going to say it: I love the Spouse. I love, love, love the Spouse. I do, I do. Not only is he my ticket to ride (hehehe), best friend, and man of my dreams, but he understands that running is a necessity. He understands that I manage chaos with a run, he understands that my many psychological demons are caged on a run, he understands that I solve problems during a run, and he also understands that I get that much needed dose o' dopamine after a run.
Spouse gets running. He doesn't compete with it. He doesn't complain about it coming first. (For the record he does come first, it's just that the run happens first. Ooooh, I just felt the need to drop a dirty joke on you all, but decided against it. But maybe you can guess?)
Spouse doesn't fight the running addiction, he embraces it. Mostly because he knows the hell-on-earth he'd be living in if I were to give up the running.