Conscience: 1 Fatty: 1

            Wednesday morning was a bad morning for me. On Tuesday night, shortly after ingesting some delicious pasta and wine, I realized I had not packed my gym bag for the next day. Then I noticed I didn’t have any clean sports bras. Again? Really? I don’t know where they are all going.

            I threw some laundry in the washer right before bed. My washer came with the house we are renting. It takes forever to wash and the spin cycle sounds like a jet engine taking off.  I told myself I could get up early, put my stuff in the dryer, and do some household chores while my clothes dried.

            I woke up early and starting going purging my closet. It’s that time of year again to switch my summer wardrobe over to a winter one. Goodbye muffin top shorts, hello loose-fitting sweaters. I also go through and select clothing to donate. I have made my mind to actually get rid of clothes that don’t fit me anymore. If I ever am a size medium again, it’s just another excuse to go shopping. I console myself with this thought as I toss out some really cute stuff. These lucky bitches at Goodwill have been getting my clothes for years.

            I was getting really into it and watching the clock for when would be a good time to leave for the gym, then I realize I forgot to put those clothes in the dryer. Shit. I see the LA gear sports in the Goodwill pile. Wow, someone’s going to be really thrilled to get that sweat-stained torn garment. I really should throw that away. Anyway, there is no way I’m wearing that thing.

            So, I decided that I would just have to get up really early on Thursday and Friday. That is my punishment for not being prepared.

            My Thursday morning alarm goes off at 6:30, and it is colder than hell in my room, but the bed is so warm. I pull my cell phone from underneath my pillow, reset the alarm for eight, and roll over to my very warm husband. Looks like the fatty voice wins today.

            Then, something amazing happened. My conscience spoke up.

            So, this is the point where you quit. It happens all the time and this is how it starts. Get your lazy ass out of bed.

            My conscience actually won. I got out of bed and got to the gym. I walked in and the place is nearly deserted. This is the first time I’ve gone on a Thursday morning and it’s apparently not a very popular day. It just became my new favorite. There were empty spaces as far as the eye could see.

            I got on my favorite treadmill in the back corner, can’t be too careful. I am still on the interval that has me running for 90 seconds, walking for 90 seconds, then running for three minutes, then walking for three minutes, then repeat. I have succeeded only once.

            Right away, I felt very strong. My first minute in a half was not making me very tired. It still felt like part of a warm up. My three minute run was challenging, but doable. I was still horribly out of breath, don’t get me wrong, but I was breathing effectively and working through it.

            I was trying all the tricks today. I was staying loose, because just angrily pounding at the treadmill tenses up my body and makes me tired. I was bargaining with myself to not look at the clock: I can’t look at the clock until Godsmack says Bad Religion. I was concentrating on my breathing. I found that I hold my breath sometimes when I’m putting forth a lot of effort.

            On my last three minutes, I decided to step it up a notch. I select my Rob Zombie list and pound it out. Ninety seconds slowly tick by, and my body goes into quit mode. No, I can’t quit. It’s only a minute and a half for God’s sake. I lengthen my stride and try to breathe as deeply and evenly as possible. My legs are burning, my face is on fire, and the back of my neck is pouring sweat into my hair. Nothing about this feels good, except finishing.

            And finish I do. I walk a few minutes to even out the clock (a small obsession of mine) and stride toward an elliptical. Instead of going to work feeling like a failure, I’m going to feel like a champion all day. I have not felt a win in a long time, and I’m ready for another.

              Apparently not ready enough. Today is Friday and the fatty voice won. I had a work function last night and got introduced to the high life. The Miller High Life to be exact. I came home and made tailgating food.  This kept me up until almost midnight. Really, seriously, better fuel and sleep is what my body needs, and I have to make a conscious effort to do both.

            But not this weekend, I have to get into my Snooki costume. Jersey Shore Bitches!

No Alli of mine.

            Warning, this entry is a very accurate portrayal of what happens when you mess with weight loss supplements. As a result, there is some material that will bother most people, especially the faint of heart. I am not proud of what happened, but it happened. It is relevant to most people’s weight loss journey, the struggle of the diet. If you are disgusted by candid accounts of what happens in the bathroom, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

            Monday marked the first day after a week long hiatus from running. It went horribly. No funny remarks, just all around a bad day at the gym. My body felt weak, and I struggled through the whole thing. I almost finished, but felt I could not, and that made me feel more like a failure than if I had just slept in.
            I have come to the conclusion that I really need to start fueling my body better. During this whole thing, I have not made an effort to eat healthy. If anything, I have been eating worse. I know better than this. Working out does not give me license to eat crap…greasy, sugary, delicious crap. And this is the worst time of the year for it. I bought a bag of Halloween candy for the trick-or-treaters at my office. Within three seconds of getting that candy bag in my truck, I turned into Jabba the Hut and just went to town. I thought the trick-or-treat event was today, but it’s tomorrow. I’m really worried about having candy left to hand out. At least I’m going to be Snooki for Halloween, so it’s not like I have to be thin or attractive.

This was my Monday, I get up early. I go to the gym. I eat leftover pizza at work. I go bowling. I order a burger, fries, and a bucket of beer. I could have just slept in and had a salad. I am an idiot. And that is something I could have totally controlled. There are healthy things out there I actually like to eat, but it takes time to prepare those types of meals. It takes organization and discipline. These are two things I lack outside of work. But, it’s something I have to do and I can’t cut corners.

There are really two things I can do to cut down on calorie intake. First, I have to, and really have to, cut down on the booze. The managers in charge of checking ID’s at Bakers started to remember my name. Then I started going to HyVee, and the managers there see me and just give the “she’s good” wave to the cashiers. Then I told Josh he needs to start going to the grocery store for me. It’s not happening.

The second thing I can do is stop making all kinds of fatty foods. I have been on a cooking rampage this year and have made some delicious stuff. I keep finding excuses to do it. Last night, I wanted to celebrate me and Josh’s nine-year dating anniversary. He said that it doesn’t count since we are married, but nine years is significant… and the perfect excuse to try my hand at vodka cream sauce. Of course, I have to drink some wine while cooking.

As I was pouring the heavy cream and vodka (yes, you read that right) into my dish, I thought to myself, “wow, if you ate this with Alli, that would be a mess.”

Many dieters out there, whether you want to admit it or not, know what I am talking about. For those of you in denial, let me elaborate.

Alli is the brand name for Orlistat. It is a pill that you take and it sits in your lower intestine and blocks one-third of the fat you eat. In plain words, you poop out the fat. There is an obvious benefit to having one-third of that pizza not turn into cellulite. I started taking them, just to give me an extra edge on my dieting and working out.

It sounded like a good idea, but in practice these pills are actually quite stupid. If you eat something healthy, the pills really aren’t needed and aren’t going anything other than wasting your money. If you do eat something you shouldn’t, sure you will “pass” the fat, but you will be punished. I learned this lesson at a most unfortunate time, the day of my sister’s wedding.

I had taken Alli off and on a few times before. Sure I heard the warnings: Don’t wear white pants. Bring an extra pair of pants. Be prepared.

I wasn’t concerned. In fact, quite the opposite. My boss at Victoria’s Secret encouraged me to double my dosage. She used to take it when it was prescription, and the over-the-counter stuff was half-strength. My mother-in-law, who is in the medical profession, confirmed this. Fine, I’ll have two, thank you.

The pills never bothered me, even after nights of burgers or pasta. Sure, I noticed the side effects to some level, but they were tolerable. If anything, I was relieved of the chronic constipating I have struggled with all my life.

I had lost a considerable amount of weight before Anna’s wedding, but in the month before it, I had a setback. I went to Mexico for a week. Then I went to Las Vegas, then Boston, then home for Christmas. Then I started my new job. Between all those places, I found about ten to fifteen pounds, and the bridemaid’s dress I had worked so hard to squeeze into, no longer fit.

Well, back to the Alli I went. I got some alterations on my dress and all was good.

My sister’s rehearsal dinner was lovely. It was downtown in Kansas City. I chose the chicken option, which turned out to be chicken piccata. I love piccata. I think there were some amazing buttery whipped potatoes, and crème brulee. I ate all of it and washed it down with some red wine and two Alli pills. Other than the time I took a dip of Copenhagen snuff at the end of a pub crawl, this was probably the worst decision I’ve made in a while.

I had an amazing night at the bar that night when my sister and all her friends. I woke up at about five a.m. literally jumping out of bed with an intense Charlie horse in my right calf. That’s strange, I thought. I haven’t gotten these since college, and usually it’s after a whole weekend of partying. I only went out last night.

Then I found the cramping wasn’t just in my leg, but it traveled up to my intestines. I stumbled to the bathroom and found that my dehydration was only going to get worse.

I should note that the main defining ingredient in chicken piccata is a lemon butter sauce. And there was a ton of butter in everything else on that plate, which made it so delicious. Unfortunately for me, one third of my dinner was going to appear as oily, orange diarrhea.

I’m not going to go into intense detail. I don’t have to, and I’m sure most of you squeamish readers have not heeded my warning. Let’s just say…I don’t find the bathroom scene in Dumb and Dumber amusing anymore. Yeah, it was that bad. To make it worse, we were sharing a room with our friends. They had been locked out during the night and slept on the floor of another room. They came knocking shortly after the eruption of Mt. Pickle and of course, had to desperately use the bathroom.

I warned them, the damage had not all flushed down. It looked like I poured pizza grease down the toilet and it was sticking to the side. Everyone in the room thought it was really funny until they figured out that the ass smell of our room wasn’t going anywhere. We put the fan on and tried to go back to sleep.

Well, I couldn’t go back to sleep, partly because I had to stay close to a bathroom. Apparently Alli was not done with me yet, and I was due downstairs to get ready for the wedding. My sister was texting me to come down, and I told her I was not feeling well.

I finally waddle into the suite where we are to get ready. My aunts see my haggard face and assume it’s a hangover. I won’t discount the amount of drinking I did the night before, but it wasn’t the complete cause. I felt like a fat, seeping bag of shit. Actually, that’s a very accurate description, because I was seeping. All day. They weren’t kidding about the extra pair of pants.

My symptoms finally tapered off in time for the ceremony, and the day went off without a hitch. It could have been worse, I could have been wearing the white dress.

Songs of Nazareth

           After a brief visit to the office Saturday, I went to the gym for some cardio. In order to sleep in Friday, I told myself I had to go to the gym Saturday and Sunday. I haven’t had the opportunity to do this, since I have been out of town every weekend since football season started.
            The parking lot is swamped, especially for a Saturday and I have to take a parking spot near the back. I think to myself, Why is it so busy? Are they having a grill-out or something? I could go for a burger. No, they wouldn’t do that, it’s a gym. Just because that’s something that would motivate you to show up…God, stop thinking like a fatty, you’re being ridiculous.
            I walk in and notice a sign advertising the first session of a boot-camp class which will now be held every Saturday. Hmm, maybe I should give it a shot. In my experience, boot camps are for sporadic gym go-ers like myself looking for something to get them into shape, fast. The first session is usually packed, but attendance wears down as the weeks go on. Should I give it a try?
            According to the sign, I’m 20 minutes, so the answer is no. If I hadn't gone tanning, I would have been on time. Maybe I can observe this first class from a distance and make a decision to come next week. That sounds good, I should have done this with that stupid step class. Oh wait, next week is Octoberfest, a beer and sausage orgy in my hometown. Obviously I can’t miss that. Maybe the next week then.
            Well, I just came to the realization that this boot camp is probably not going to happen for me, but I entertain the idea as I make my way to the end of the row of elliptical machines. This way I can peer through the empty spin class room into the studio where boot camp is happening.
            Within seconds, I am glad I went tanning. Who knew cancer would save my life? Well, it did this day, because this camp was fucking insane. I recognized half the participants were trainers from this gym. These bastards interrupt my reading during my cardio to try to sell me training packages. They always sidle up to me when I’m at a really good part in my book. This has happened a couple of times. It’s like they have a script or something, because each conversation is almost identical.
            “Hi. How are you doing today?” Always a smile.
            Just awesome, except for the fact that I was just reading, and now I’m not.
            “Do you like reading on that thing?”
            They mean my Kindle. Yes, I was loving it until you interrupted me. What do you want?
            “So, what are some of your fitness goals?”
            Truth be told, I would love for these trainers to look at me and not see a long-term commitment of training sessions, a.k.a. steady income. I work in sales and I understand the plight of these young trainers, but leave me the hell alone. Sell me sessions when I check in, when I’m crying on the scale, or when I’m using poor technique lifting weights, but don’t come between me and my literature. You might as well as taken my beer and thrown it at my mother.
            Yes, I’d know them anywhere.
            The other half of the class are just regular people who are in extremely good shape, except for two people who are in…well, better shape than me, which doesn’t take much. This class required even more equipment than the step class I “kind of” attended. Some of the stuff they were doing in there, I recognize from the movie G.I. Jane. I am confident I made the right move by not going in there for humiliation.
            I turn my focus on one of the patrons who is in moderately good shape. She is dragging ass through this class. She’s laying down on half the floor exercises. During their water breaks, she is sitting on her stepper while the rest of these psychos jog in place. I feel bad for her. I think of my own class experience and think, “she didn’t plan an escape route. That sucks.”
            Then, it occurs to me that giving up hasn’t even occurred to this woman. She is sticking through that class and doing the best she can. She is inspirational to me. I don’t want to stare at her anymore in case I made her feel self-conscious. I advert my eyes around the gym and notice just about everyone is watching the class just like me.
            Since I am at the end of the row of machines, a lot of people looking in my direction. Shit, people have to look past my jiggling ass to watch these Spartans do their training. I immediately feel self-conscious and tell myself that they are looking past me, not at me. Also, lot of people are meandering around my machine. This annoys me to no end. I am happy to finish my workout.
            As I make my way to my truck, I notice this guy yelling at a car. First, I think someone got in a fender bender or got a door ding, then I realize this is something deeper. This guy just got out of the gym, and I think this girl was trying to call him. As she ignores him and pretends to be busy with her phone, he verbally assaults her.
            “IT’S INCONVENIENT FOR YOU? YOU HAD TO CALL ME? SO HARRASSING ME IS INCONVENIENT FOR YOU. YOU’RE A FUCKING PSYCHO! YOU HAVE A PROBLEM. GROW UP, AND SERIOUSLY, DO NOT CALL ME, DO NOT TALK TO ME.”
            This is entertaining to me, for reasons that can be described by another story about my father. (I will not put it here, but I will do an entry to tell that story if you are interested.) I walk slower in order to inconspicuously listen, but the moment is over. The guy stalks off, and the girl attempts to look stone-faced at her phone, but as a girl, I know this game. She is upset and just does not want to let the guy win. The phone is merely a distraction. I play Tetris when I don’t want to talk to my husband.
            Turns out, I am parked next to this girl. I climb in my truck and she is still sitting in her car, fiddling with the phone with her door open. I start the truck, roll down the windows, and grab my iPod.
            As the first lines of “Love Hurts” by Nazareth starts to blare, she gives no indication that she hears it. She does, however, slam her car door. She might have heard it. I can’t be sure, but it’s good enough for me, this was entertaining. Time to race home for the Iowa State game, which proved totally worth it!!!
            Tomorrow is Monday, and I will resume running. My shoes feel a little broken in and my shin is feeling fine.

Bring Your Dad to the Gym Day, a Rainy Day Story

            We all know that last week was an epic fail. I went home to the farm last weekend to drown my sorrows with some family time and Iowa wine. I thought my muscles could use the rest. As the weekend wore on, I noticed some pain in my right shin would not subside. My leg still feels like it has some knots and is tender to the touch. I should have iced it, I guess, but I didn’t think my pathetic little workouts would do any serious damage.
            Yesterday was Monday, and I was feeling pretty lazy as usual. I decided to have a chill morning before going to work. I will go the gym after work, I said to myself. I have said this many times, but have not done it. This time I was serious because we were missing bowling due to Josh being out of town. I packed my stuff to take along and off I went.
            At work, my leg was still bothering me. I decided to do a low-impact workout to give my shin some rest. The guy working at the gym agreed, and said my injury was probably due to getting used to my new shoes.
            I got on the elliptical and chose a pretty difficult-looking training program. I thought this would be a good opportunity to get some reading done on my handy-dandy Kindle. Unfortunately, putting down my iPod puts me at the mercy of other people’s conversations.
            Overhearing people talk while they workout always irks me a little. I get out of breath just thinking while working out. How can these people carry on conversations about their bitchy co-workers or that girl they “totally did?”
            I hate listening to these conversations, but every time I hear them, it reminds me of the time I took my dad to the gym.
            For those of you who do not know my father, it’s kind of hard to describe him. He’s a little bit of a cross between Andy Taylor and Barney Fife. Oh, who’s that you ask? The Andy Griffith Show? That’s un-American. If you have not watched it, either rent it immediately or go back to Russia, you Commie bastard.
            Anyway, my dad is a lot like Andy Taylor in the way that he is very hometown. Other than a tour of duty in Vietnam, he has lived “back home” on the family farm his entire life. While he has a country way about him, he is no yokel. He is intelligent with an easy smile and a beautiful deep voice. But, like Barney Fife, he can be very excitable and has very little filter. He often says what everyone else is thinking and is utterly incapable of whispering. Pair that with the deep voice that carries, we often have disaster.
            My mother discovered this very early into their marriage. She always talks about when they attended a wedding together, many years ago. They had run late and had slipped into a back seat when the wedding party was starting to process in. The rather large bridesmaids were donning emerald green dresses. Dad leans over and says to my mother, “I thought the Packers had a game today.” My mom avoids the eyes of the wedding guests who turn around to glare at her, while my father smiles contently to himself, congratulating himself on his unfailing wit.
            See where I get it?
            My parents came down to visit earlier this year for a couple of days before heading to Kansas City for my sister’s wedding. I was going through another fitness spurt, as was my dad. We decided to wake up early and hit the gym before I went to work.
            I woke up when it was still dark out and knock on the door of our spare bedroom. Dad shuffles out wearing jeans and a long-sleeved polo shirt. I don’t even ask, because this is about what I expected. He shakes his head, “your mother didn’t pack my sweatpants. Boy, these people are going to look at me and say, ‘now, there’s a farmer from Iowa.’”
            “YOU TOLD ME NOT TO. I DIDN’T KNOW! I PACKED WHAT YOU TOLD ME TO. DAMMIT, MIKE!” screams my mother from the darkness of the bedroom.
            An image of my father’s sweatpants dance through my head. These are the pants he puts on immediately after walking in the door from the barn if he plans to go outside and work again. This keeps him from eating lunch in dirty clothes and making my parent’s house smell like hogs. These pants are usually food-stained and smell like the farm, even after several washes.
            I’d rather him wear overalls, if it came to that. “It’s fine, Dad, let’s just go,” I say.
            We get to the gym. I direct him to the men’s locker room. I go into the women’s and hang my coat in a locker. I find my father in the hallway outside looking confused.
            “There’s just lockers in there.”
            “Yes. That’s where you put your stuff.”
            “I’d rather just hold my things.”
            Whatever he feels comfortable with. I really can’t blame him; it would really suck to get his coat stolen in the middle of winter. I worry about it myself.
            “Well, that’s fine. What do you want to do?”
            “Well, I want to bike. I like to ride the bike you kids gave me. I ride it every day.”
            My dad used to ride a very dangerous and old-looking stationary bike in our dungeon-like basement. It was orange metal and had rust on the seat. This bike is so old, it looks like the Wright Brothers may have had it in their shop before they experimented with flight. My siblings and I sprung for a decent new bike as a Christmas present. It now resides in my parent’s kitchen.
            We get to the bike section and I climb on. I help dad adjust the seat, and I notice something is off. Literally off.
            “Dad, where are your shoes?”
            I stare down at some old dress socks, with a big hole in by the right big toe.
            “I never wear shoes when I bike.”
            “You also bike in your kitchen. You can’t do that here. It’s probably in your best interest to put shoes on,, you might get a disease or something. It’s not clean.”
            “Oh, ok, I guess I can put my shoes on.” Dad turns toward his shoes. Dress loafers. Shit. I look around and shove his shoes underneath his coat on the floor. Thank god we are in a corner by ourselves.
            “It’s fine. No one will notice. Let’s bike.”
            We get started and I pull my Kindle out, ready to read, but Dad wants to talk. That’s fine with me, I enjoy his company. I don’t really get to spend a lot of time with my dad. Unfortunately, we wants to talk about other people at the gym. Loudly.
            “Look! Look at that woman over there!” Full arm extended in a point. “Look at all that weight she is lifting! She’s too skinny. Don’t you think she’s too skinny? That’s not right. Do you think she is anorexic?”
            “Dad, please don’t point. And keep your voice down, people can hear you.”
            And they could. People on the weight machines in front of us were stealing glances at the suspected anorexic pumping iron, but Dad was not deterred.
            “Look at that guy in that wheelchair! He’s going to lift all that weight! Do you think he should be lifting all that weight? Shouldn’t someone spot him?”
            “He looks pretty strong. He’ll be fine. Please stop staring. Seriously, you are talking really loud.”
            “Oh, am I? Sorry.”
            We keep biking. We talk of other things: my bowling league, my sister’s wedding, and our weight loss goals. But his urge to verbally observe is strong.
            “Look at that guy! Is he really going to lift all that? Look how big he is! Do you think he takes steroids? I wonder if he will take his shirt off, I bet he has a six pack.”
            This guy actually looks like he is suffering from ‘roid rage and he is not wearing ear buds. He is looking in our direction and I’m starting to get nervous, then Dad suddenly climbs off his bike.
            “Ok, I’m done.”
            “What? That was only 20 minutes.”
            “I always bike 20 minutes. I do it three times a day.”
            “Well, I’m going to be here an hour. Since I woke up early for this, I’m not doing anything less than that.”
            “Don’t worry about it, Sugar.” (24 years old and he still calls me Sugar to this day.) “I’ll find something to do. I’ll make sure everyone is doing everything right. I might spot that guy over there.”
            He laughs to himself. That wit again.
            I keep track of him for a while in the mirrors placed around the gym. You know, where the meat-heads can admire themselves as they do the “g” part of their GTL. Dad actually does wander aimlessly around the weights, observing, and my heart rate goes up a little bit. Then I get the urge to read. I’d rather stare at a book than a mirror, and I guess that explains the lack of spandex in my wardrobe. I start to read and I lose track of Dad. I finally realize my error and become frantic. I can’t see him anywhere. Damn. I get off my bike, turn around, and spot a grinning trainer selling him some supplements. No, no, no, not on my watch.
            I waltz up to the desk, trying to halt the transaction. “Don’t buy this. You can get this crap at HyVee for a fraction of the price.”
            Dad grins at me. “It’s going to help me burn fat. Look at his guy, he knows what he is talking about.”
            I go and get my coat. We’re leaving.
            I know I’m poking a little fun at my dad, but I really can’t blame him. We don’t have gyms back home. The first time I went to a gym was in college. You are either in shape by manual labor, sports participation, or you can elect to go walking. I admire my father’s drive for fitness. I envy his discipline to do it himself at home. There’s probably a reason he looks the same at 62 that he did at 40.
            Anytime you get the chance, take a relative to the gym, even an obscure relative. It can be a lot of fun. At the very least, it can be an adventure.
 

Various Stages of Undress

          It’s Friday. Most people are excited about Fridays, but I am not. Fridays are the day I do my runs early. This morning I had to be at work at eight, an hour earlier than usual. This means I had to drag my ass out of bed at 5:30.

          This running thing is really starting to mess with me. I had a dream last night that I was running bare-assed. When I woke up to my 5:30 alarm, I couldn’t find my pants. What the fuck is going on?

            I sit on the toilet longer than the necessary time, talking myself out of going back to bed. This happens to a degree every morning, but this morning required a heated debate in my head.

            You can get an extra hour and a half of sleep. You don’t have to run.

            Yes, I do. I have to get it in before the week is over.

            You can do it another time. Go back to bed.

            When am I going to do it? I’m going to the farm this weekend and my father-in-law adjusted the belt on my mother-in-law’s treadmill, therefore I have deemed it unsafe for high speeds. No. I have to do it now.

            Your throat feels like crap. Your sinuses are starting to drain. Soon you will be coughing. You feel crappier than you did on Wednesday and look how well that turned out for you.

            Well maybe I won’t be such a Sally today. Lord knows I’m not eating nasty red velvet cake flavored yogurt. Besides, exercising might boost my immune system.

            I finally decide I’ve convinced myself to go, and then discover I have no toilet paper. Dammit.
            I go to get dressed and look at my sports bra with disgust. I cannot find any of my sports bras and I have the feeling that they all might be in the overflowing pile that is my dirty clothes hamper. I have a wardrobe that is so large it’s really shameful, so laundry is not something I have to do too often. But, when your gym time goes up, so do your laundry needs.

            I had to dig in the bottom of my drawer for this sports bra. It’s made by L.A. Gear, if that’s any indication of how old this thing is. I believe I wore in it high school, if not in junior high. It goes without saying that I have grown quite a bit since then, in more ways than one. My mom says half my massive chest growth can be credited to Budweiser. Well thank you, King of Beers. I do enjoy that certain side effect. I like to refer to them as my fatty hoots. It sounds more fun that way. 

            As I get dressed, I notice that a little bit of boobie hangs out the bottom of this ancient brassiere. I pull it down, and find it has no elastic left. It’s about as supportive as a baby’s daddy on Maury. And one shoulder is torn. This is really shameful. I used to combat this very thing in my three years with Victoria's Secret.

            Look at this raggy thing. Go back to bed and run when you’ve got a decent bra to wear.

            No. It will do. It’s not like I run for that long anyway. Besides, I’ve got my new PINK collection purple gym bag all packed and ready to go.

            I get to the gym and pick a treadmill in the back corner, my new favorite. No one is around me, and I’m pretty pumped about that. My new shoes feel a little more broken in and I’m trying to be an optimist about this run.

            I start. My first 90 second interval goes ok, but I still feel like I’m not getting enough oxygen. I also don’t feel very strong. Maybe there was something to that throat thing. I feel the urge to cough up some stuff.

            I didn’t get up at 5:30 to puss out on this run. Man up.

            About halfway through my intervals, I notice my bra starting to move around on me. I ignore it as long as I can, but then it just feels weird. I reach down to adjust…and there’s my boob. Shit. There is nothing between me and the gym except a discount Lady Foot Locker v-neck. I slam my hand down on the stop button and jump off. I’m done, just fucking done.

            Again, I got up at 5:30. For God's sake, if you aren’t going to run, do something since you're here.

            I got on the elliptical for a half hour, limiting my upper body movements. This actually made for a good leg workout, but I fail to see the upside.

            Let’s recap. This week I had a deceptively good run, then almost vomited on myself, and then showed off the goods to the gym. Dammit, why I can't I do things like normal people? Instead something awkward always happens. This week is a fucking wash. I’m clearly not ready to advance with my training.

New shoes+NyQuil+Red Velvet yogurt=Dismal Failure

Coming off a great run on Sunday, I was in immense pain on Monday. Monday was a busy day at work that involved a lot of time standing or walking around. My shins, knees, and even thighs felt like they were beaten with a lead pipe. Every step sent pain shooting up my leg. I knew I needed new running shoes. I had been fighting it for a long time, but the pain was hard to ignore today.

Monday was too busy, and then Tuesday brought a different kind of pain, an intense sinus headache. I'm allergic to dust mites and soybean dust, and the latter makes this time of year hell on earth for me. I was feeling pretty shitty, and had it not been such a busy week at work, I would have been zonked out on NyQuil all day. Knowing I had to at least run on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning to stay on schedule, I made it a point to go on a shoe quest on my lunch hour.

I had no idea how clueless I was about shoes. The trainer I had last year recommended Sauconys for a brand, and I just went and bought a random pair. They felt great when I first had them, but soon wore down. I was told that a runner should get a new pair of shoes every six months, give or take how many miles they put in them. I’d had these Sauconys over a year.

I start surfing the net and find that there are a lot of types of running shoes out there. There are also all kind of names for the shape and arch of my feet. Overpronation? What the fuck does that even mean?
Obviously, this is going to take more thought than, which ones come in purple?
Luckily, I was able to reach out to a friend who used to work at Foot Locker. He recommended Asics, some inserts, and taking my time. Sigh.
           I got out on lunch Tuesday and headed to the mall. I love shopping more than just about anything, but I have an anxiety of going into anything resembling a sports store for a few reasons. I feel like everyone is looking at me and thinking, “We don’t sell chocolate or booze, so what are you doing here?” Also, I don’t really enjoy shopping where I have to tell people my size, even my shoe size. That conversation usually starts out with, “how big do they come in?” I usually wear about a ten, which is about the biggest size normal shoes come in, so I don’t really know why I’m bitching. My brother had to special order his shoes all through high school.
          I wander into Lady Foot Locker, because I can’t stand the thought of really anyone touching my feet, especially a guy. In nine years of being with Josh, there has only been one foot rub attempt and it almost resulted in him losing a few teeth.
         Alright, who wants to deal with the beast? A girl named Amy greets me. She has my name and doesn’t look like referee Barbie. She also does not laugh when I tell her I'm a beginner runner. For these reason, I like her immediately. I tell her to show me some Asics. She asks to measure my feet and I grudgingly comply. Apparently my right foot is a ten and my left is a ten and a half. And I have high arches. Like I need another reason shit doesn’t fit me. She recommends going with a size 11. The last time I had to get elevens, my friend who was with me told me to go back to the fucking circus. This is not fun.
         I find a pair I like and guess what, they come in purple. Score. And I read online that they are for heavier runners who need more cushion. It couldn’t have sounded better if they dipped them in batter and fried them. They feel amazing. I put them on and I instantly start to envision myself on a wonderful and tireless run. My hair is flowing in the breeze. I am just stylishly dewy with perspiration. There's not an ounce of fat on my body, and my perfect tan legs are effortlessly striding out with my new shoes. Is that unicorn over there? Fabulous.
            In my euphoria, I take the shoes. Amy takes advantage and upsells me into inserts and four snazzy v-neck workout tees. The fact that I am partial to v-necks might be genetic. My dad is a v-neck fanatic when he is working on the farm, so much so that he has a permanent v-neck tan.
                        I go back to work and I’m pretty excited about my purchases, even tempted to break them in that night. Whoa, am I actually excited to run? This is certainly a change.
            By the time I get out of work my head is pounding with sinus pressure and the NyQuil is calling to me. I throw back a shot of that very green-tasting liquid and chase it with some water….and a half a glass of wine. I fell into a delicious sleep and woke up feeling better.
            Hi Ho, Hi Ho, it's back to work I go. Another long day looms ahead of me and my boss agrees that I can take a two hour lunch to get my run in. This saves me from dragging my ass out of bed at five, and for this I want to hug her. When it’s time to go, I slam some light yogurt for fuel and head to the gym. My new purple v-neck tee matches my shoes, which is a welcome change from my usual pit-stained bar t-shirts. I look less like a nasty hobo and am feeling confident. Let’s break these puppies in.
            Right when I start my first 90 second interval, I know I’m in trouble. I feel very weak today, a big contrast from Sunday. I stumble through my three minute interval and start coaching myself on how to get through the rest of this. Well, I’m not in pain. The shoes are working. They feel odd, but I don’t feel like my shins are going to shatter like glass.
            I start my second three minute interval. I am still not in pain, I can get through this.
            About 30 seconds in, I think to myself, I would rather go through a full body cavity search than do this interval. My legs feel like they are on fire. I feel like I can’t get enough oxygen. It’s like my body is pulling a cart full of lead behind me.           

I’m a minute in a half in when the taste of red velvet yogurt and bile hits the back of my throat. Oh my god, it’s not like I’m in Navy Seals training, I am not going to throw up.

I try to swallow and the threat does not go away. I start to cough and I hit the stop button in a panic. I jump off the treadmill and calm myself down. Then I remember that I have to write about this, and I don’t want to admit that I failed. I take a breath and get back on that goddamn treadmill.

I struggle through 90 seconds. I call it a finish and get off. My mouth tastes like ass, I am never getting red velvet flavored yogurt again. It doesn’t even sound good.

I start to hobble around aimlessly, really wanting to sit down. Is there a fatty bench in this place? Where’s the goddamn fatty bench? I head to the recumbent bikes, relaxation disguised as exercise.

Through all this, my legs feel fine. The agony in my shins has turned into a dull ache. Shoes definitely help, but they are not going to do the work for me. I need to keep myself healthy. Despite the fact that I’m fighting off a sinus infection, I feel like a failure.

A good run and one badass mullet

            Today is Sunday. I don’t normally run or really do anything on Sundays for several reasons. One, “Lazy Sunday” is not just an SNL skit to me. Two, Sundays usually find me…dehydrated from a good Saturday night. Three, Sunday is a day I usually am spending time with my husband, and sometimes it’s hard to tear myself away.

            But, I had to run today. I plan on working a long day on Monday and know I won’t get my run in. I woke up later than I liked, still groggy from a humiliating Cyclones game. We were playing Utah, a ranked team, I know it was going to be bad, but not like prison shower scene bad. 

            I start to do some stretches in my room. Some of my stretches that I’ve picked up from cheerleading and dance I would rather not do in a gym. As I lay on my bedroom floor, listening to each joint in my body pop and complain, I start thinking about yesterday’s damage to my body.

            I like to cook, and I have been trying new stuff for every tailgate this season. When I cook, I make food that would make your nipples and your arteries hard at the same time. I know that’s really crass, but that’s the best way to describe it. I ate some awesome shit yesterday, and washed it all down with Bud Light.

            As a result, I wasn’t feeling it this morning. I knew I was dehydrated. I had a good run on Friday, and I was debating if I should move on to the interval assigned for week three of this training program. I only successfully completed a week two workout once. I had peeked at the week three on my Blackberry at the game because I was tired of watching these Mormons beat us like their third wife. This week consists of 90 seconds of running, 90 seconds of walking. Then three minutes of running, three minutes of walking. Repeat once.

            It seemed pretty doable, but then again everything else did before. Three minutes is twice as long as anything I’ve done up until this point in the program. Can I really do it?

            I reach the gym still undecided clad in two pieces of clothing advertising that I went to a college with a mediocre football program. I figured it would be empty like last week, but it was actually pretty busy for a Sunday morning. So, I guess I’m not the only bad Catholic in Omaha. Good to know.

            I decide to go for the week three interval. Let’s see how it goes. Ninety second run, done. The ninety seconds of walking goes quickly, and Janet Jackson’s “Nasty Boys” isn’t going to do it for me anymore. Yes, I know the song isn’t that good, but when you were seven years old shaking your bony ass in your lavender flowered room, it was the shit.

            Powerman 5000 “When Worlds Collide” comes on. Let’s dance treadmill.

            I pounded this treadmill like the Yankees have been pounding the Twins (Josh and I really know how to pick those sports teams huh?), and finished my three minutes. I only have to repeat once. I think I prefer this to the starting and stopping of a short interval, and I know I’m going to make it.

            My second three minute run was harder of course I wanted to quit in the first minute. To me, running is all about thoughts and feelings. I knew I was going to finish because I felt very strong physically and I have made up my mind. I am going to make this interval my bitch. I finished and felt victorious. I decided to keep the party going on the elliptical.

            I only intended to be on the elliptical for fifteen minutes, since I wanted to get home for the Redskins game. I’m feeling on top of the world, and very sweaty. I’m pretty sure I am visibly sweating through these black pants. Is that possible? Well, if you haven’t met me personally, oxygen makes me sweat. I don’t own one gray t-shirt for good reason.

About ten minutes in, I just want to take a shower. Then I saw something glorious. This guy walked in sporting the most magnificent mullet I’ve seen since MacGyver. Having lived in Missouri for over a year, I know what I’m talking about on this subject. It was feathered and cascaded down his shoulders, perfectly meshing with his mustache and hippie glasses. He wore a dirty red wifebeater and the same kind of Fruit of the Loom sweatpants that my dad wears when he eats lunch so our house won’t smell like hogs. Everything about this guy told me that he was the kind of guy who keeps spare cars strictly for parts and masturbates to Freebird. This guy is awesome, and I need to see him run.

He doesn’t even pull the mullet back into a ponytail, but lets it flow in the breeze. Of course he is a better runner than me, but something strikes me. This guy, in all of his Camel Light-smelling glory, does not sweat. His pants are certainly stained, but not with sweat. I can barely take my eyes off this guy.

After a half hour on the elliptical, his mullet is just starting to glisten and I’ve had enough. I am feeling too good to lament about how much I sweat. It’s a gym for God’s sake, why am I so embarrassed?

I walk in front of the treadmills to stretch (something I learned is a must) and Mr. Mullet gives me a smile. I’ve been caught.

I’m not sure who is the creeper in this situation, but I don’t even care. I feel so great about doing that new interval. I’m actually kind of excited to run again. I no longer dread it. I feel a sense of accomplishment and development in my training. I am working toward something, not away from it. I am not stagnant, but I am moving forward.

             I am winning.

Running like my ass was on fire.

           I woke up early for my run Friday. I really hate waking up early for just about anything, but I was determined to hit the bar with some people after work, and was motivated to be able to do that guilt-free. Nothing motivates me like beer. I’ve won most of my competitions for drinks. Playing for booze, I can’t lose.

            I got into the gym with the usuall complaints. Ass dragging, belly jiggling, but what felt heaviest was my heart. I have struggled this week with my runs. My interval this week has consisted of a five minute warm-up walk, with running a sad 90 seconds and walking two minutes. I have to keep that up for twenty minutes. It sounded super easy when I looked at it on Sunday, but apparently looking it up while you stuff your face with thai food is actually harder than doing it. On Monday, I got overheated and stopped very briefly to get a sweat towel. We all know what happened with fucking Fix-it Frank on Wednesday. Needless to say, I am not looking forward to this run that got me up an hour and a half earlier than usual.

            I pick the same treadmill as Wednesday. There are no parts lying around the one next to me. Turns out Fix-it Frank can do more than kill a bottle of CK One. I take a deep breath of fresh air. Let’s do this.

            I do my warm-up mentally preparing myself for how I’m going to get through this run. Focus on breathing, don’t watch the clock, let your music drive you, and most of all, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.

            I start my first running interval, and everything seems to be going fine. Of course it is, it’s my first minute of running, not my fifth. I look start to feel tempted to look down at the “time elapsed” on my treadmill, but I remember my pep talk and advert my eyes elsewhere. My eyes land on a sign on the treadmill next to me. So the treadmill next to me still isn’t fixed. Well that’s just perfect.

            My body tenses in an instant state of panic, where is Fix-it Frank? I spot him, meandering around with a post-it note and a telephone. The fact that I didn’t smell him first is an instant improvement. It seems we found the soap this morning. He looks semi-busy, but keeps walking in circles that are looping him closer to this treadmill.

            Failure is not an option, so I decide I have found a new focus. Every time I feel like looking at the timer on my treadmill, I am going to play “Where’s Waldo” with our favorite maintenance man. My temptation to look at the timer is strong, and I’m really scared that I’m just being a “cologne bottle half full” kind of girl about this. I watch Fix-it Frank like he is holding my last case of beer for safekeeping.

            I eventually have to look and reduce my speed, and reduce I do. I’ve decided to reduce my walking speed by two-tenths of a mile per hour to give my body more rest on my walking intervals. I have started to learn to listen to my body, and my body tells me that if I was doing this outside, there is no fucking way I would walking as fast as I do now. It’s still a speed my old trainer Nikki would have been ok with, so I deem it fine.

            It was either that or the Papa Murphy’s pizza I had last night, but it all was working. I hit the halfway point of my running intervals and I come to a realization. I’m going to make it. I’m going to fucking make it!!!

            Oh my god did it feel good to know you are going to finish intervals that have been kicking your ass all week. I wasn’t dreading the runs, and smiling a little through my wheezing breaths because I was actually doing it. This is why people run. I felt happy; I felt on a high, I felt absolutely great.

            Then I heard a sound. A screeching sound. Then flashing lights. Is that the goddamn fire alarm? I know my thighs are rubbing together like two drunk kids on prom night but I didn’t think we are getting sparks here.

            It was the fire alarm. What the hell is going on? People are looking around, confused. I search for Fix-it Frank, but I don’t have to search long, because my eyes have hardly left his gut. He is at the front counter fiddling with some controls and laughing. I instantly retract any guilt about making fun of him. If you are going to test the alarm system, do it in the middle of the night, not during a peak time. You’re scaring the senior swim class for God’s sake.

            This continues through my run, but there is literally nothing getting me off this treadmill before I am ready. I finish, and that’s all that really matters. The senior swim class has been shuffling in during my run, and I’m excited that they will be in the water when I get ready for once.

            No such luck, we are dealing with chicks that have all the time in the world. They are putting on their ultra-modest super control swimsuits on when I enter the locker room, and I’m glad I grabbed one of my laciest thongs for the day. Enjoy the view ladies.

            I know I’m enjoying it. My legs are starting to look less like cottage cheese in a bag. I know it’s going to be a good day.

Aqua di Gio, o Dios Mio.

            I’m not going to pussy-foot around, my run sucked ass today. I felt pretty tired. I’ve kicked my body, and it’s starting to kick back.

            I approached the treadmill wall today and, to my satisfaction, it was pretty empty. I notice one treadmill on the end, next to one that has parts scattered next to it. It has a sign stating the obvious need of repair. I consider not taking this one because I might have to thunder and sweat all over some poor handyman that might be on break. Wow, that sounded like a bad porn.

            On the other hand, no one will be running next to me. I decide to go for it. I’m only on this thing for about a half hour and if the guy comes back it won’t be so long.

            I made sure to stretch more on Tuesday so I wouldn’t feel so tight (normally my pants are the only tight thing on me). My run started out ok, but every time I run I feel like I’m getting overheated really quickly. I keep water and a sweat towel handy.

            The water and the sweat towel were not doing it today. I was trying to concentrate on my breathing. They say a watched pot never boils (and it’s true, I have anticipated many a pasta dish losing that game) and the same is true for a timed interval. One and a half pathetic minutes drag by. I try ignoring the clock and focusing on my breathing and the Rob Zombie music pounding in my ears. This was all going fine, until Handy fucking Hank came back.

            I don’t want to make fun of this guy, because it looks like his job sucks, but he is pertinent to the demise of my run. First of all, you can tell he is strictly maintenance at this gym. He sticks out like the beer belly over his jeans. I shouldn’t throw stones, but I’m on the one on the treadmill, and he’s struggling to fix one around my jiggling body.

            He actually was doing a good job of steering clear of me. His overpowering cologne did not. I mean Jesus buddy, Curve for Men does not equal a shower. They have showers where you work, what the fuck are you doing? Making me nauseous that’s what you’re doing. 

            A combination of my fatigue, frustration, and a Hugo Boss headache force me to stop with the intention of switching treadmills. I get on one on the other side of the wall, and I get one intending to finish my measly two intervals. I then realize my body feels like someone beat me with a club and I cannot. I get on the elliptical to make my remaining time respectable.

            I go to work, feeling beaten. My headache also starts to worsen. Damn, I only had one (tall) glass of wine last night. I know, one too many the night before a run, but I was writing and it felt right. What the hell was that guy wearing? Sex Panther? Before I know it my body feels achy. I go to a work lunch and don’t want a burger. WHOA WHAT?  A burger doesn’t sound good to me? Something is definitely wrong. I mean, I know I’ll live because I went with a wrap and sweet potato fries, but I felt even shittier after.

            There has been a lot of illness going around my office. I was bragging about my immune system just yesterday, and a workout usually boosts it. Maybe I’m getting sick. I start to feel better mentally, maybe that’s why I felt so fatigued this morning.

            My head still hurts, and I should have taken some NyQuil and gone to bed, but the Twins are playing the Yankees in post-season, and I felt like writing, and some wine…really shouldn’t take NyQuil after wine. That probably would make for an interesting post.

            I’m toying with the idea of hitting up a yoga class tomorrow night. I am wary of group classes because I had a bad experience.

            I was at the gym one fine day, I might have even been doing a little running, and I saw a class starting to assemble. I think it was a step class or something. I had been working out for about 30 minutes and was feeling pretty good so I figured what the hell? I’ll give it a shot.

            I follow the lead of some ladies and select a couple different sizes of hand weights and some step contraption. Why do those things have to have these neon colors that make it look like they came straight out of my Mom’s old school Denise Austin workout on VHS? Do you know that bitch is still smiling into cameras telling us we can do it? I have a very dusty Pilates DVD of hers.

            Anyway, I have all my equipment together and pop a squat on my stepper and assess my classmates. I notice immediately that they are all fit. Like very fit. I start to panic. I do not belong here. I consider leaving, but I’m sweaty and I feel my ass cheeks have left marks on the stepper. I stand and pretend to stretch. Confirmed. Disgusted, I sit back down to keep it covered.

            I start to calm myself down and tell myself that these women are not freaks, but they are fit because they actually are regulars at this gym and attend classes. The fact that they are not pieces of shit like myself doesn’t mean I can’t do this class.

            So wrong.

            The instructor bounces in. I do not need to describe her; I believe we all know the type. We get started, and people are distracted enough for me to stand up.

            I’d like to believe I’m not that uncoordinated. I was in dance and cheerleading and actually excelled in them, but this class made me look like I was trying to get on a bike without arms. That’s not really funny, but if you think about that looks, it makes sense.

            Not only am I stumbling, this class is really fucking hard. I’m exhausted. I look at the clock. Oh, five minutes down, only forty to go. Come on, Amy, you can take anything for 45 minutes.

            Around minute nine, I start assessing my situation. The mirrored wall is showing everyone my awkward, red-faced attempt at this class. Is it more embarrassing for me to continue this death march, or just abandon ship?

            I realize that I had to take too much goddamn equipment out for this cluster fuck that I can’t put it back in one trip. I would have to make two trips, or just leave some crap behind. I’m not even close to the door. Dear God, why didn’t I go into this without an escape plan? Now I would look fat and like an asshole. Someone else has to put my stuff away.

            Minute twelve, and I don’t even care anymore. I’m here on a day I normally work, and I tell myself I won’t see these women again. I stalk out like I have somewhere important to be, which turns out to be on the couch with a Bud Light.

            Josh comes home and I start to tell him the story. He cuts me off.

            Josh-“How many minutes did you make it?”

            Me-“How did you know I didn’t finish?”

            Josh-“Oh you did?”

            Me, hanging my head in shame.-“No. I made it twelve minutes”

            Josh looks at me for a while and says, “Good God,” and starts laughing. I start laughing too. It feels good to laugh.

            So, I might get the courage to go to yoga tomorrow, I might not. Either way, I think I have to stay on this interval this week before advancing.

Beyonce' becomes the voice of God.

Burgers, fries, and a Bud Light don’t taste right.

           

            Yes, I know that rhymes.

            I started my second week of the Couch to 5k plan last night. I was so tired from the weekend my rationalization won over and I stayed in bed late, so I was forced to run after work. Normally I would tell myself bowling league that night was going to be enough so I guess this plan is serving its purpose already.

            I roll into the gym at a little after eight and it is packed tighter than my thighs in my new running capris. Semi-fitted my ghetto ass. Most of the treadmills are taken, which means I can’t obey my lone wolf rule. My lone wolf rule means I don’t want anyone next to me at the gym. This rule is strictly enforced in the land of the treadmills, but loosely obeyed at the elliptical machines.

            I give the back wall a scan. Now, who is going to be not embarrassing to pant next to? Trick question. Everyone is going to be embarrassing. Ok, who is going to be the least embarrassing?

            I narrow the wolfpack to two options. I can be next to a robust lady who is walking briskly. I will not make fun of her. She is at the gym just like me trying to make some progress. Besides, if she is in better shape than me, it adds to the embarrassment.

            My other option is a girl walking at a slower pace. She looks like she is in full walking mode and will barely notice me, so I fall in next to her and get started.

            A few minutes in she starts running. Damn, I got duped by the warm-up walk. Well, it’s not all about me. Hopefully I’m the most aggressive people-watcher at the gym and I’m just being paranoid.   

            I had to increase my intervals this week. It wasn’t so bad; except for the pain my body is starting to feel. I should not have done that extra cardio session on Sunday, and I really should have stretched more. My legs were burning with every thundering (my thundering I mean I sounded like a Cylesdale over Alice in Chains on my iPod) step I took, and my ass was jiggling around so much it was about to throw my back out. Oh, I’m in fine form.

            I finish my run and head off to bowling league. I didn’t pack a protein shake and I’m starving. Damn, that whole Girl Scout being prepared thing was probably more than always having a corkscrew and a bottle opener in your purse (which I do). That’s probably why I was never in the Scouts. And my cookies probably wouldn’t have made it to the customer. Thin Mints….right.

            Anyway, the bowling alley doesn’t make salads and I’m not sure I would want one if they did. Old habits die hard and I guess I’m just forced to get a burger and fries. Must as well get a beer too. Light beer.

            You know, it just didn’t taste right. In fact, a burger, fries, and a beer just don’t taste right after a run. It’s like my body is telling me, “Really Fatty? Do you really need this now? After all you put me through?”

            Well that didn’t stop me from getting a second beer. It is bowling league after all. When in Rome. As if on cue, a song I haven’t heard in years comes over the speakers.

            “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly…”

            Ah yes, Beyonce’. My body is too bootylicious for you babe. Is the god of nine-pin no tap league trying to tell me to stop being an idiot and close my tab? Maybe. I followed the advice, but the damage is done. I feel huge and my entire lower body hurts from the run and three games of shitty bowling.

            This is my second week and it’s already a shit show. I started wondering how it is going to be when I actually do a 5k. I was planning on just working up to the distance, but now it’s kind of anti-climatic if I don’t do a public one. Everyone keeps asking me if I have registered for one. I am trying to give myself ample time to work up the distance, and then get acclimated to running outside, but I’m also very afraid. How am I going to run around so many people when I have to be selective about my gym spots? 

            I guess that’s another reason to do this, I’m tired of being embarrassed.