Dear sir,

Salutations, and pardon the interruption. Can you just... hello? Can you hear... you still have an earbud in. There, that one. This will be quick, I promise. OK, hello, hi!

I spotted you this week at the gym. You sprang along on the treadmill beside me, clocking a pace between 8 and 10 miles per hour. I was the sullen, elfin one jogging at 4 miles per hour with a face the color of Santa's nose while he's sleighing across the equator at 2 a.m. on Christmas. Hm? Oh, yes, yes, I may have quietly prayed "for the sweet release of death," but I didn't mean for you to hear that.

Your face, though. Your face was somewhere else, somewhere far away, your eyes shut gently, a tranquil smile pulling your cheeks skyward. You were not there, sir. I mean, you were there, but not there-there. You looked like a stock photo for "SERENE RUNNING MAN MID-40s." It seemed, sir, that you were in the middle of what some anthropologists of questionable repute call a "runner's high." You were... happy. To be... running?

I have some questions.

No. 1: How dare you?

No. 2: I am kidding. I'm not mad at you. I like exercise, too. It makes me feel better mentally and physically, but I will fully admit to needing a push when it comes to the cardio department. I hail from a line of heart disease and I'm getting older, so I know it's important for me to spike things up and down around the old ticker! Keep her cranking, get that oxygen-poor blood through the pulmonary valve, you dig? That's why I'm in this class with you.

Some days, I like the running part more than others, sure. But I've never lost myself in the bliss of running. It's not my particular destiny. If we were cavepeople, for instance, I would have been posted up at the Eurasian limestone enclave, scratching sarcastic recordings on the wall about the crushing ennui of living in a cave when all I want is for someone to notice my witty personal essays. You definitely would have been in the field outrunning and spearing large herbivores, keeping the whole family alive until at least age 28.

No. 3: What's it like? To feel so alive?

No. 4: How often do you feel alive, per se? Is it, like, daily? Or are you averaging one alive moment per quarter, which seems more reasonable?

No. 5: Did you always know you were a natural runner, or did someone scary chase you at an early age?

No. 6: Do you have any tips on form? The coaches keep telling us to pick up our knees and try to kick our butts, to which I say, are you really telling us to kick our own butts? In our free time? And this costs how much?

No. 7: Concerning your face, is it safe to run on a treadmill at 9 miles per hour with your eyes closed? No, I'm not trying to find flaws in you. I am concerned you're going to trip and go flying off the belt while frantically grappling for something to hold onto, and that thing you grapple for might end up being me, the elfin one who looks nice and sturdy.

I guess that's all. Thank you for your time. If you choose to answer any of these questions, you will have to open your eyes first. I will be over by the weight rack scratching witty essays into the padded gym floor.

Yours,

Sturdy lady

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on Twitter or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: lewisgoodphotos at Pixabay