Cue the music.
Another One Bites The Dust.
My legs stretched and limber.
I adjust my headphones, make sure they're snugly in place.
A nice, cool night for a jog.
I have one of those microscopically small iPods. I ordered it online Feb. 14, Day One of my quit. I had it inscribed with the date.
Feeling good, and looking good if I don't say so my own damn self, not like some fool run-clubber, I ease into it and trot down my hilly street.
The beat prods me on, keeps me at a respectable pace.
Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet,
Machine guns ready to go
Are you ready, are you ready for this
Are you hanging on the edge of your seat
Out of the doorway the bullets rip
To the sound of the beat
I arranged the playlist so that increasingly energetic songs follow, to get me through the awkward first phase of the jog.
Two residential blocks later, which is like a span of 30 homes, my eyes cloud with tears.
My side balls up. It feels like someone is staple-gunning my midsection.
The first song of my playlist is not even halfway done, and I am a sputtering mess.
I try to launch some spit onto the street, to clear my drying and closing throat.
Without the wind to do it properly, most of the spit ends up on my jogging pants.
The headphones dislodge, and I fumble with the wires while trying not to break stride.
For pride, I push it maybe five more blocks, until I feel like I am on the verge of multiple organ failure.
By the time I come to a gasping halt, I am midway through song two of my 20-song playlist.