If the many worlds theory is true, I'm at least thankful these other parallel universes are never visible to the residents of this one, even in brief eerie glimpses. I'd really hate to see myself running. Since I never run, I figure there's another universe in which I do run, and if there's one thing more mortifying than the thought of running, for any reason in any possible universe, it's the thought of seeing myself in the act of running. C once famously refused to run for a bus that was pulling away from the curb, announcing grandly to her boyfriend, "running is boring!" This nonsensical remark is easily identified as a rather pathetic example of spontaneous defensive peevishness (SDP), but the fact remains that there are those of us who simply refuse to run, who avoid situations in which running might be involved, who just do not like the sensation of lumbering along the pavement at a rapid pace on spindly sticks of quivering meat, our arms doing whatever it is they do, flailing or pinwheeling or hanging limply, our bodies ever so close to being completely out of control. When you run your body is no longer yours, it belongs to the world, the world of gross biological reality and the brutal, unflattering laws of physics. The physical sensation of running is like a form of sober drunkenness, except without the crucial boost in self-esteem that really makes drinking worthwhile. To run is to broadcast one's intentions and desires too straightforwardly to a scornful public. I am late. I mis-timed my journey and now I must run in order to avoid an even more disagreeable state of affairs, which you can just imagine must be potentially pretty awful since obviously I think it's worse than running. I really really want to be on that bus. I am being chased. I am attempting to cheat death by engaging in exercise. I fucked everything up and now I have to hurry the fuck up or I am in deep shit. Almost all running, therefore, is an advertisement for one personal failure or another. The failure to be young and vital and effortlessly slender, the failure to be on time, the failure to keep your shit together and stay on top of things.