Running without a partner

My wife says she only runs when she's really, really mad. I'm happy to report that she has never been running in the time that we have been together. I'm also happy to be running alone.

In high school, I always thought I'd prefer to date a runner. (It had nothing to do with the girls on the track team being the only girls who talked to me, I swear.) She'd understand my need to run, my ridiculous appetite and my funky-smelling clothes in a way that other girls wouldn't, I reckoned.

Turns out I was wrong. I'm perfectly happy that my wife does in fact understand my aforementioned needs without feeling compelled to lace 'em up herself. We do occasionally exercise together -- she's taught me some very helpful dance stretches -- but when it's time for me to run, she leaves me be. I let her stay home when I race, too, since, well, it's pretty damn boring to stand there, often in the less-than-pleasant weather in which I prefer to run, and try to find your husband amid a sea of thousands of other skinny white guys in little shorts.

The way I see it, running is my alone time, just as dance is my wife's alone time. I rarely talk about running with my wife, saving it for my running friends and this little blogging experiment, and she rarely talks about dance with me, unless we're chatting about someone dancing remarkably well (or poorly).

Given how much else my wife and I have in common, it's nice for us to have our own hobbies. Sure, I sometimes wish I had a partner for my early-morning runs -- but if I did, then there'd be no one to surprise me with breakfast.