Adam ' Lori called loudly enough for me to hear her but not so loud that her voice would carry up to my mom in the marina office- or to her dad who might be listening from their screened porch facing the water. 'I came over to get some tips from the boys about teaching Tammy and Rachel to board. Of course I did not come over here to see you. How could you think such a thing That would be disobedient.' I held up the wax. 'For my own disobedience I have to buff the boat. Then I'm going for a jog.' She tilted her head. Probably her eyes widened but I couldn't see them behind her sunglasses. I hated not being able to see her eyes. She asked 'In this heat?' I didn't mind jogging in the heat. The heat was a big friendly animal that liked to wrestle and only occasionally sat on me until I lost my breath. Anyway she was missing the point. I repeated carefully 'I am GOING for a JOG.' 'I HEARD you the FIRST time ' she said. 'It's late afternoon in the middle of June. It's ninety-five degrees out here.' 'He means he's GOING for a JOG' Rachel and Tammy said at the same time. 'He's GOING for a JOG.' Lori still didn't get it. Normally her blondeness was one of the things I loved about her. At the moment not so much. Exasperated Cameron told her 'Adam wants you to go for a jog too.' She said 'Oh ' 'If you two airheads have to hook up secretly for very long ' Sean said 'you're not going to make it.
I was actually losing about a pound a week which was really wonderful. It was a really nice, and good, and healthy way to do it. And I still got to eat my chocolate every day which was wonderful, although I haven't had a drink in a really, really, really long time. I love being outside and working out, and I sometimes jog with my husband, and sometimes I jog with one of my daughter's best friends, and it's incredible. I was able to do Pilates for the first time in my life, which is almost better than sex. Not quite, but almost.
Your spirit is the duster of any spider web. Behind every finish line, there is a start one. Behind every success, there is another challenge. While you are alive, be alive. If you miss what you once did, do it again. Don't live in yellow photos... Continue although everyone expects you to give up. Don't let oxide the iron that is inside you. Do that instead of pity, and they will respect you. When because of years you cannot run, jog. When you cannot jog, walk. When you cannot walk, use a cane. But never stop!
I was recently told, 'You're a liar!' when I said to somebody I walked down the spine of the Andes. Every Spaniard in the sixteenth, seventeenth century did that. The idea that somebody could just walk! He can jog perhaps in the morning, but he can't walk anywhere! The world has become inaccessible because we drive there.
A good stylist should have narcissistic enjoyment as he works. He must be able to objectivize his work to such an extent that he catches himself feeling envious and has to jog his memory to find that he is himself the creator. In short, he must display that highest degree of objectivity which the world calls vanity.
I jog through the halls and then go upstairs to Jane's locker and carefully slip the note I wrote last night through the vent: To: The Locker Houdini From: Will Grayson Re: An Expert in the Field of Good Boyfriends? Dear Jane, Just so you know: e. e. cummings cheated on both of his wives. With prostitutes. Yours, Will Grayson
The Tarahumara would party like this all night, then rouse themselves the next morning to face off in a running race that could last not two miles, not two hours, but two full days. According to the Mexican historian Francisco Almada, a Tarahumara champion once ran 435 miles, the equivalent of setting out for a jog in New York City and not stopping till you were closing in on Detroit.
I work out a lot, but it changes day to day. I always start out with some cardio - either a jog, a bike ride, or footwork drills designed specifically for tennis movement. Then I do weights, but I switch the days: one day it's upper body, the next day it's lower body. Then I do stomach and back pretty much every day.
Hope, and fear. Twin forces that tugged at us first in one direction and then in another, and which was the stronger no one could say. Of the latter we never spoke, but it was always with us. Fear, constant companion of the peasant. Hunger, ever at hand to jog his elbow should he relax. Despair, ready to engulf him should he falter. Fear; fear of the dark future; fear of the sharpness of hunger; fear of the blackness of death.
Exercising during the cold and flu season will help people stay in shape, and most likely fight off colds or reduce the number of days a person is ill. The cold season should not be an excuse for the average person to refrain from exercising - working out at the gym, a brisk walk in the park or a jog through the neighborhood.
I barely even know how I didn't feel. I didn't feel like reading a newspaper, or having a coffee, or going for a jog, or watching television. Nor did I feel like crying behind the boiler in the basement. Or like trying out for something. I did't even feel like I had lost someone I deeply loved; this was different from that. I didn't feel like going to another movie and asking for extra butter on my popcorn. I didn't feel like talking to someone who would understand.
Every flaw you have Only endears me more to you; Each line of sadness on your face Speaks of the suffering you have been through; And the strength it took To come out alive; The strain it caused you Just to survive; Perhaps you will never know the pride I have for you, overcoming your trials; For while most jog for meters You ran for miles; At the end, Death takes us all But not all of us live in order not to fall; Many live for their own selfish means They live in order to avoid the pain; But they will never achieve as you have done For life without honour Is life in vain.
It was like the classic scene in the movies where one lover is on the train and one is on the platform and the train starts to pull away, and the lover on the platform begins to trot along and then jog and then sprint and then gives up altogether as the train speeds irrevocably off. Except in this case I was all the parts: I was the lover on the platform, I was the lover on the train. And I was also the train.
It was not the way Curve smelled that Colin liked - not exactly. It was the way the air smelled just as Lindsey began to jog away from him. The smell of perfume left behind. There's not a word for that in English, but Colin knew the French word: sillage. What Colin liked about Curve was not its smell on the skin but its sillage, the fruity sweet smell of its leaving.
My Teacher Sees Right Through Me I didn't do my homework. My teacher asked me, 'Why?' I answered him, 'It's much too hard.' He said, 'You didn't try.' I told him, 'My dog ate it.' He said, 'You have no dog.' I said, 'I went out running.' He said, 'You never jog.' I told him, 'I had chores to do.' He said, 'You watched TV.' I said, 'I saw the doctor.' He said, 'You were with me.' My teacher sees right through my fibs, which makes me very sad. It's hard to fool the teacher when the teacher is your dad.
We are not simply intellectual creatures. We wish to make love, to enjoy a gourmet dinner, to jog in the park, to cheer lustily at a ball game, to engage in spirited conversation with our friends, to play bridge or tennis, travel to exotic places, struggle with others to build a better world, and to enjoy the arts. The arts are so vital because they help to make life worth living. Music, poetry, literature, paintings, dance, and the theater are among our richest joys...The fine arts contribute immeasurably to the good life and that is why we cherish them.
Exercise has a direct brain connection, when you consider what it actually does. What we tend to overlook are the feedback loops that connect the brain to every cell in the body. Therefore when you throw a ball, run on a treadmill, or jog along the shore, billions of cells are "seeing" the outside world. The chemicals transmitted form the brain are acting the way sense organs do, making contact with the outside world and offering stimulation from that world. This is why the jump from being sedentary to doing a minimal amount of exercise - such as walking, light gardening, and climbing the stairs instead of taking the elevator - is so healthy. Your cells want to be part of the world.
Maybe I can climb one of those, " Simon said, eyeing the fat white pillars that held up the slanted roof of the Hall. Runes were carved on them in overlapping patterns, but otherwise there were no visible handholds. "Work off steam that way." "Oh, come on, " Clary said. "You're a vampire, not Spider-Man." Simon's only response was to jog lightly up the steps to the base of a pillar. He eyed it thoughtfully for a moment before putting his hands to it and starting to climb. Clary watched him, open-mouthed, as his fingertips and feet found impossible holds on the ridged stone. "You are Spider-Man!" she exclaimed.
At age 43, when I decided to run again, I realized that the images used to describe runners didn't fit me. I wasn't a rabbit. I wasn't a gazelle or a cheetah or any of the other animals that run fast and free. But I wasn't a turtle or a snail either. I wasn't content anymore to move slowly through my life and hide in my shell when I was scared. I was a round little man with a heavy heart but a hopeful spirit. I didn't really run, or even jog. I waddled. I was a Penguin. This was the image that fit. Emperor-proud, I stand tallto face the elements of my life. Yes, I am round. Yes, I am slow. Yes, I run as thought my legs are tied together at the knees. But I am running. And that is all that matters.
In the parking lot, she drove and parked in a dark area with no other cars around. She reclined her seat, and listened to music. Outside there were trees, a ditch, a bridge; another parking lot. It was very dark. Maybe the Sasquatch would run out from the woods. Chelsea wouldn't be afraid. She would calmly watch the Sasquatch jog into the ditch then out, hairy and strong and mysterious-to be so large yet so unknown; how could one cope except by running?-smash through some bushes, and sprint, perhaps, behind Wal-Mart, leaping over a shopping cart and barking. Did the Sasquatch bark? It used to alarm Chelsea that this might be all there was to her life, these hours alone each day and night-thinking things and not sharing them and then forgetting-the possibility of that would shock her a bit, trickily, like a three-part realization: that there was a bad idea out there; that that bad idea wasn't out there, but here; and that she herself was that bad idea. But recently, and now, in her car, she just felt calm and perceiving, and a little consoled, even, by the sad idea of her own life, as if it were someone else's, already happened, in some other world, placed now in the core of her, like a pillow that was an entire life, of which when she felt exhausted by aloneness she could crumple and fall towards, like a little bed, something she could pretend, and believe, even (truly and unironically believe; why not?), was a real thing that had come from far away, through a place of no people, a place of people, and another place of no people, as a gift, for no occasion, but just because she needed-or perhaps deserved; did the world try in that way? to make things fair?-it.
He's close enough now that I can hear his footfall on the pavement, and I know my chances of outrunning him are slim. I'm practically in a full sprint, and my pounding heart is begging me to take it down a notch. I try to will my feet to keep pace with its beat; but I think it's humanly impossible to run that fast. And then it dawns on me that my footsteps are the only ones I hear. Somewhere along the way, Tristan's must have come to a stop. And I can't quite explain why I'm running this fast in the first place. I slow to a jog, intending to just pick up with my original pace; but I can't seem to suck in breaths fast enough to propel my feet any further. My molten shoes stutter to a stop, as my hands come to rest on my knees. I'm still wheezily sucking in breath after breath of thick, humid air, when I warily turn to look over my shoulder. Tristan's standing about fifty feet back, hands on his hips and a completely flummoxed twist in his forehead, his chest rising and falling with equally winded gasps. Evidently I was running faster than I gave myself credit for. As he silently watches me, regaining his breath as I do mine, the confusion on his face turns to undeniable hurt (and not the physical kind). I've wounded him, and I can't even explain why. Man, I really am an ass. I start the slow walk of shame back to where he stands, one hand upon my hip as I pull in a few more calming deep breaths. I'm debating whether to concoct some excuse for my behavior... Maybe I left my contacts out today, and didn't recognize his face? Who would blame me for running for my life, if a stranger seemed to be following me? But as I amble closer-his wrinkled forehead already fading in the wake of a welcoming smile-I decide not to dig myself a deeper hole. I'm already a straight-up jerk. I'd rather not add lying to my repertoire.