I have spent a lot of the new year looking at myself nekkid. Just standing in the mirror...facing front, turning to the side, using a mirror to view the rear, back to the front. I am doing this in hopes that the ever present spare tire I am smuggling under bloused dolman tops causes a fire to light under my pancaked ass to get me moving and change my body's current state.
Spring Break 2010 ~ I'm the hot one...
Although this ritual does cause the necessary depression, towel smothered sobs (I don't want to wake the family) and diminishing self confidence it is definitely not working. The P90x Cd's I had my brother burn for me haven't made it within inches of the DVD player.
So, I decided to take another route...I contacted a running friend and joined her for a Saturday jog. I was extremely nervous considering the last time I ran was close to a decade ago but figured everyone can run, right? Wrong! Running is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I have ever tried to do past the age of 17. Let me replay for you the disaster that was my running experience...
I text her to make sure we are still "on" for our running date...secretly hoping she has been diagnosed with syphilis which has since made her blind...does syphilis make you blind or is that herpes?? Whatever, any blindness causing disease. No luck, she still has her sight as well as all other senses (I can't remember how many there are because on top of being fat I am also stupid, the cards are stacked against me). I ask what I should bring and she responds to only be concerned with how many sports bras I need to wear. Good point...
I show up, kiss her babies and we hold hands exiting from her driveway because it is covered in ice...that should have been the first red flag. We begin a slow and steady pace and about two seconds into our trip my ankle goes out...I giggle as I limp a few steps here and there and inform her something might be wrong with my ankle. Willing with all my might that my ankle is broken and then I have a valid excuse for not having to run anymore because at about one second into the run I was over this dumb shit. Ankle miraculously heals and we are back at the solid pace.
Fast forward some miles...some meaning one...
Me - "ugh, can we turn around now?"
Marathon Fucking Runner - "we don't turn around...we run an entire block which is a total of 4 miles"
Me (in my head) - "Please God, I don't ask for much but if you could strike me with lightning right now I will go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life and even work in the preschool class..."
Skip more miles...some meaning 0.5...
MFR (coincidence that Marathon Fucking Runner acronyms are MFR, I don't think so) - "Was that a dog?"
Me - "What, where?"
MFR - "I thought I heard a dog charging us..."
Me (I'm taking the liberty that you now know italicized font means this convo is happening in my head) - "Please God, I don't ask for much but if you could please have a rabid dog emerge and literally eat my ankles off I will army crawl around my neighborhood spreading the Gospel for the rest of my life..."
More miles...2 minutes from feared dog attack...
Me - "I have to pee"
MFR - "Do you want to stop?"
Me - "No, I should be alright..."
MFR - "Do you know sometimes runners piss or shit themselves because they exert their bodies so much during a race?"
Me - "AWESOME!"
I then proceeded to piss and shit myself.
Okay, some of this is a tad exaggerated. I did a lot of walking, even more bitching and a tremendous amount of begging to please walk again. The only good thing that came out of that running debacle was the sunshine skillet I inhaled afterwards as a reward.
Going back to being a complete dumb ass, I'm running again this Saturday with the same MFR that almost killed me last weekend. No, not because I felt so great afterward. What a crock of shit that is...you don't feel great after running, you feel tired and then for the next three days you feel like you've been vaginally assaulted by dudes the size of Fat Albert and then made to do the stair master...I am running because I want another sunshine skillet.
Bikini Bod...HERE I COME!