I met my boyfriend through the personals. His ad said that he was looking for a woman who was “athletic.” I assumed that was a code word for “thin.” After we’d been dating for several months, he told me I was wrong, that “athletic” had actually meant athletic.
Oops. Too late. We were in love.
I was a fortyish woman who had never done anything vaguely athletic in her life. I didn’t even like to sweat. To my boyfriend’s credit, he never nagged me. To my credit, I was very supportive of his running. He had finished the San Francisco Marathon and ran five days a week, in rain, wind, sleet, and snow. He even ran on the occasional pleasant day. I once watched him go running on vacation, a concept beyond my comprehension.
