Eric is a marathon runner. I'm not. In fact, I'm not even an errand runner. I'm more of a start out with the best of intentions and lose interest about thirty seconds later-er. But the thing is I'd like to be a runner. Or some kind of cardiovascular exercise getter.
(What extraordinary grammar I'm using.)
Thing is, I find it deadly dull. Running, even out in the beauty of creation is mind-numbing. Even worse than that is our treadmill. Running toward an unfinished sheetrock wall. Once though? I had the portable DVD player propped up in front of the treadmill watching a movie, with cattle stampeding, and cowboys, and Nicole Kidman? And I ran. Like the wind.
So I've decided that that is the secret. I need adrenaline to motivate me.
So... what causes adrenaline? Fear. I need someone to chase me. Eric would do that for me. He's a good guy. But where's the fear? He's a kindhearted soul who wouldn't hurt a fly. There's no adrenaline there.
He needs to threaten me with something terrifying. And what do I find terrifying? Tickling. Sweet Baby Jesus, I hate to be tickled. More than anything.
So here's what we'll do. Eric will give me a thirty second head start and then chase after me with tickle hands. And I will flee, cackling and screaming in terror down the middle of the street. And we will do this every day until I am fit and thin.
I'm sure my neighbors will enjoy the show. And not call the police.