Creaky Legs (Oh God, What Have I Done?)

    
     I've never been what one could call "athletic." Throughout my life, I have deftly avoided sports and all sports related activities. It has occurred to me, however, that our days are numbered before the impending zombie/vampire/nuclear mutant/Owen Wilson clone apocalypse strikes, and it would be wise to get my body into some kind of decent physical condition so that I can effectively flee the murderous hoards. In my current state of fitness, I can indeed run if there is something to run from for as long as my creaking legs and tar-weighted lungs will allow-- about three minutes. That is why I've decided to take up the cherished past time of jogging/sprinting for no good reason at all. This is the account of my first morning:

What the hell is this? Read on to find out!

First Ten Minutes: Stretching!
My bosom is filled with the premature self-satisfaction that accompanies such a healthy addition to one's schedule. I scrape together the remnants of memories from high school gym classes and perform several basic stretching motions. With each poorly executed exercise, I am bored by the count of ten, but I persevere! I make it to twenty! Usually!


Jogging: First Two Minutes!
My heart is already thudding at an accelerated rate; it is confused, considering the many previous years of minimal performance. Only in the presence of squirrels, Twilight fans, and tremendous amounts of caffeine did the body that it dwells inside of require more than a few half-hearted (HA oh fuck) beats every hour. Now it is suddenly being forced to push blood through the veins that it feeds at a torrential rate, but soon the confusion falls away, and the heart and body become exhilarated! Fitness! Nothing can stop me! Nothing! Exclamation point!


Four Minutes!
Determination drives my spirit onward. My legs are tingling with a strange warm energy. The monotonous echoing of BOMPBOMPBOMPBOMP pounds in my ears, throat and fingertips-- MAGIC! I feel young and alive; it is as if my heart no longer resides only within my ribcage, but has spread to every last centimeter of my bod-- wait, has it only been...


Five & 1/2 Minutes!
The rejuvenation that I felt only seconds earlier now seems to resemble the sensation that probably accompanies the onset of death. The rhythmic puffing sounds from my lungs have degraded into a quiet, uneven wheezing. My legs are still holding out reasonably well, but I find myself suddenly and immensely concerned that my heart and lungs may explode simultaneously and fuse into a strange tar monster that will storm the streets. For the safety of the city, I pause for a quick break.


Break!
I glance at my reflection in a darkened window and find myself confronted by a perplexing sight. Without my knowledge, it seems that my carotid artery has become inhabited by a foreign life form that is desperately trying to hammer its way out of the side of my neck. Perhaps zombies are not what will trouble us, but instead body-invading aliens that require a decorative esophagus to correct their Chi. Then a horrifying thought comes to mind: perhaps the tar-fusion-monster has already happened; oh, god, what have I done?


Running! Again!
After a brief (and slightly worrisome) rest, I'm at it again, a bit more refreshed and all the more determined. Unfortunately, the ten second pause in which I contemplated my potential role in the downfall of Man allowed my legs sufficient time to realize that they object to this ridiculous new addition to their schedule, and would rather be propped up on a footstool supporting a book or toasty, toasty laptop. My calves protest first; sharp, stiff sensations tear up from my ankles to my knees, soon followed by a dull but un-ignorable ache in my thighs. Oh, god, what...what have I done?


Eight...Minutes...Running...In...Still...
I'm all the worse for the wear. In my failing condition, my only fuel is stubbornness and pride. My legs are tremendously stiff and flailing around like poorly constructed windmill wings. Stop to stretch? NO! Not an option! Must finish! Now! Faster! Run FASTER! BATTLE CRY! GRAAAAAAWWWW!!


Nine...Nine Minutes?
OH GOD GET THIS THING OUT OF MY NECK WHY


Ten Minutes.
I'm sitting on the front stoop of my residence smoking a cigarette, weighing the odds of standing up and showering or just living out the rest of my life on these cement stairs. It won't be long, anyway.


Thirteen Minutes.
My legs have cracked off and I'm dragging myself around my stupid apartment to find the wood glue. You may be asking, "why wood glue?" Because it's the only fucking glue I have, I can't remember where I put it, and I need legs if I plan to do this again. God dammit.

Found the wood glue.

Twenty Minutes.
The creature erupted from my neck, made sweet love to the hot water handle of my bathroom sink, and then swiftly made off into the dewy morning air. Oh god. What have I done?

You wouldn't believe the sounds that it made.