You know who you are and I owe you an apology. I have laughed at you and mocked you over the years. Though I looked down on your clunky, ugly, gray New Balance sneakers and your too-short running shorts, your dress code was never at the heart of my mocking thoughts and scornful looks.
It was your speed.
Wogger, I mocked you because, though you intended to jog, you moved at the pace of a walk. Your leg muscles strained, your arms swung back and forth and your sweat-stained shirt all said “run”, yet, sadly, your body responded with “walk”. Your aspirations were those of a jogger, your reality was that of a walker. Thus, I dubbed you “Wogger.”
“Is that really the best you can do?”
“That’s just sad.”
“Why don’t you just walk?”
I apologize for these thoughts, for my haughty manner, for my better-than-you attitude, because I have been humbled. You see, I am now a Wogger, and I am the slowest type of Wogger there is. I came to this realization as I watched gap grow between me and the fifty-something year-old man who was slowly walking his dog. Though I was “jogging”, his meandering pace was somehow faster than my own.
So to you, Woggers of the world, I say that I now know that you wog because you refuse to stop. You wog because you are tired, but refuse to be limited by your body. You wog, though you are in pain, because you are mentally strong.
I wog because I am in horrible shape.
