One enormous complaint I want to get off my chest and into the blogosphere:
I generally run at least 12 miles a week. The previous two places I've lived have involved a flight of stairs in order to leave/access my bedroom, and both of my post-college jobs have involved several flights of stairs per day.
So why do I still get out of breath at the top of the stairs? And why don't other people? Are they all secretly Olympic-caliber athletes and laughing at me?
(Yes, I would like some cheese with this wine. That can't be helpful in solving this problem, though.)
Sure, you can tell me, like the handsome swimmer classmate did in college, that one must train for stairs in order to conquer them ... but when I work five days a week and take the same set(s) of stairs with the same amount of weight (i.e., my lunchbox and any reading material), how does that not count as training?
It's somewhat embarrassing — OK, it's not really, because I'd like to believe I'm not so narcissistic that I assume everyone's thinking about me and consequently judging — to be known as a runner and yet to be caught flushing or panting at the landing.
A former co-worker once told me that in his youthful soccer-playing heyday, he ran up and down flights of stairs. His face grew wistful as he remembered how fit he was back then; mine, sort of frightened by the sweat, side stitches and possible falls that this workout would cause.
But is that what the universe wants me to do? If this winter is as fierce as last one's was mild, is that what I'll have to do, in lieu of running on icy sidewalks in frigid temperatures?
God, I hope not. And, I'm sure, so do my fellow complex residents.
Please share any insight ... or commiseration.