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.