l| a time to be silent and a time to speak |l

"I Did It!"

That was my proud homecoming acclaim, with beads of perspiration as proof. But I was welcomed with surprised responses: "That's fast!"

And expected was the reaction, since it was just 25 minutes ago that I left the house for a jog. But hey, I wasn't ambitious - I'd set myself a target of 30 minutes! That's the HPB standard, right.

My little cheerleading cum warm-up team made up of my nieces had prepped me with mini stretching exercises before I went off, with encouragements (rather, challenges) like 'Do a split!', 'Touch your toe!' (without bending the knee).

So there I was, started well (as all do) by walking down 11 storeys instead of taking the lift (pure womanpower!). And I enticed myself to keep going by setting short-term mental targets like 'Past the old man!', 'Ok, just the next traffic light...', and 'Fine, last bus stop!', before I gave in to jelly thighs and started to briskwalk.

After running around my estate (circumference ah), I decided that I should start with baby steps and headed back. Rounding up the routine, I climbed up the 11 storeys. Trying to distract myself, I counted the steps as I went up... 8 steps (pant) per flight... 2 flights (pant) per storey... equals to (pant) 8 x 2 = 16 steps... so, 11 storeys equal to (pant)... *mental block*. Must be the lack of oxygen.

Just at the 10th floor was the Mc delivery guy staring at me. I looked him back in the eye but all I could see was the brown paper bag (looks like a drink of sorts) in his hand. He was lucky a kiddo and his mom were at the door - or else!

I hate jogging - running without a purpose, to me. At least running for a frisbee or basketball has a goal in mind. Oh well, I guess the need to lose some misplaced fats and get the heart pumping right should suffice.