Turkey run

 
            Ah, Thanksgiving. It’s the time for family, friends, and food. In theory, the holidays are supposed to be a time of rest and relaxation. I have always found this to be the opposite. This holiday was a great time, but it was also a busy time. We spent it back where we grew up. Josh's sister got married, and both he and I were attendants at the wedding. Opportunities to eat and drink in excess were plenty, and I took complete advantage of them.
            I brought home my gym bag along with a pessimistic attitude. My at-home track record is not very good.  Workouts don’t happen. Gluttony does. But, I thought I would at least quiet my newly found conscience with at least trying to find a place to run. Let’s see…well it was icy and about ten degrees out when we pulled into my in-laws driveway, so running outside was a no. My mother-in-law’s treadmill has seen better days and is a guaranteed knee injury due to belt slippage. I decided my best lead was my mother-in-law’s 24 hour access gym. I thought she could lend me a swipe card for just one workout. It turns out they switched over to 007-type shit and I would have to cut off her finger to gain access. I hope I never want to work out that badly.
            Over drinks at Wednesday's bachelorette party, I voiced my concern.
             "Grandma has a treadmill at her house, it's pretty nice," one aunt offered. "As long as you don't mind sweat." Apparently her husband had drenched it in sweat earlier that day. I guess she has never seen me work out. I make it rain.
             At first, I'm elated. Yes! I can stay on track. Then the unreasonable fear and self-consciousness set in. Josh's whole family is staying at Grandma's. I have a hard enough time working out with perfect strangers. Perfect Strangers was a good show. Whatever happened to Balki? Or Larry even? Huh. When am I going to do this run?
             "Are...are people going to be around on Friday morning?" I feebly ask.
             The aunt assures me that everyone will stay out of the basement except for maybe a few seven year olds. There are a lot of small children on that side of the family, and Josh's grandma's house can resemble a daycare on holiday get-togethers. I tell myself that this is inevitable and will probably want to leave as soon as they see me in fitted pants. I started to imagine the blunt comments only innocent children can make.
            “You don’t run as fast as my daddy does.”
            “Why does your belly jiggle like that?”
            “Are you going to die?”
            The turkey wasn’t the only one who was stuffed the next night. I found myself struggling to stay awake on Grandma’s couch. I was just about to call it a night when the aunties asked me if I was going to come by and run that next morning. I said something non-committal, but they encouraged me to swing by; I was welcome to use Grandma’s treadmill. Damn supportive relatives. I secretly curse and thank my publicity of this blog. It has others holding me accountable. I decided to squeeze in a run before my manicure-pedicure appointment the next morning.
            A sleepy husband and lack of planning made me run late. This is starting to become a bad habit. I try to push through the sea of relatives at Grandma’s to get on the treadmill as soon as possible. Damn, I forgot a water bottle. Ok, found one. How do I work this treadmill? Alright, found the key that was hidden from the children. Good move, Grandma. Ok…reposition the couch, and I’m ready to go, and so are two very small girls.
            “Why are you using the treadmill?” asks one.
            I ask myself the same question. Why oh why.
            “She just wants to get some exercise, right?”
            Sure, we’ll go with that.
            Now, I really do like children, and I adore Josh’s young cousins, but I often feel out of place with kids. I don’t have any of my own and I don’t feel like I know what I’m doing. I am constantly reminded that I am not ready to have a child. The closest thing I have is a young dog, and I try to limit that comparison because comparing a dog to a child is inaccurate and kind of insulting. I was unsure of what would happen with two little girls involved in my workout. I turned up my iPod and tried not to be distracted.
            I passed on the remote because I thought if I left the Disney channel on, the girls would find that more appealing. Quite the opposite, these girls took it upon themselves to be my personal cheerleaders.
            “WE”RE GOING TO RUN WITH YOU!!!” the girls squealed over the volume of my music. Kindergarten voices and Powerman 5000 make a strange combination.
            And run they did. When I turned up the speed on that treadmill, those girls went crazy. They ran circles around the den. They ran in place, screaming their heads off for me. It was very encouraging, and I couldn’t help but smile. As a former cheerleader and a failed athlete, it wasn’t often that someone cheered for me.
            “FASTER! FASTER!”
            “LET’S DO HIGH KNEES! HIGH KNEES”
            The enthusiasm also went the other way. When I went back down to walking speed, the girls slowed their pace with disappointed looks. They walked in place and eventually sat down, looking bored. Then, as I started to run again, their energy did not falter. How I envy that energy.

            I’m on my half mile interval when I jump to the side and try to catch my breath. The girls stop and frown. One approaches my sweaty, convulsing body.

            “What are you doing?” she asks with a scowl.

            Well, right now I’m being called out by a child. “Just resting,” I manage to pant.

            “Why?” she asks.

            Oh, so many reasons. I want to tell her that this is what happens when you keep Gumby’s pizza coupons around your college apartment. I want to warn her of the 24 hour drive-thrus, the dollar menus that save you time and money, the bottle of wine and the entrée you feel you have to finish, the heavy beer you learn to love because you think it will impress boys. Then there’s the temptation to sleep in because you’ve worked a double shift the night before, then blew off steam at a bar with the same co-workers so you are too tired to do anything other than sleep and hit the redial button for Chinese. How you feel lazy, sluggish, and then just depressed to the point that you don’t even care anymore as you reach for that piece of cheesecake.

            But, that’s rather melodramatic, so I just get back on the treadmill and kept running.

           

Enjoying the sights

I never thought I would say this, but I was a little glad to see the end of the ISU football season. It’s been a rollercoaster of emotions, a lot of driving, freezing my butt off, and eating very unhealthy food. Ok, that last one is completely my fault, and I am dealing with the consequences.

            I went into the gym Monday running late, and that was the only type of running I felt like I could handle. Sure, I have dreaded my runs in the past, but normally I felt pretty good even if it wasn’t successful. But, ever since my week of illness and sloth, I feel like I am facing just an absolute ass-whoopin every time I walk through the doors of my gym. This must be how the Cyclones feel most games. Ok, that wasn’t fair; they did an ok job this season. I’m just bitter. I mean, I can’t make field goals either, and I could have used a scholarship….
            The gym was pretty empty when I shuffled in. I dumped my stuff into my locker and got started.
            I followed some good advice and decided to stick with the Week 5 Plan of Hell. Even if I have to struggle through it, I will push myself to get there and make progress. It actually went better than last week; I could actually finish my quarter mile intervals. Even a small improvement is an improvement. During my first half mile, I jumped to the side to quickly catch my breath. I had debated doing this versus hitting the “down” button to wait for the treadmill to creep down, and then creep back up. I made it through my half-mile interval with one short break.
            My next set of intervals didn’t go as well. I had to stop twice before struggling my way through, but I actually completed the structure of the workout, which is better than last week.
            I didn’t have time to do much else, but I figured I had time to work my abs. The only work my abs have seen lately are sucking them in to button my pants. I lay down on a sit-up machine and lament on how strong my abs used to be. I roll my head to the side to check out the clock between sets and an elderly gentleman saunters in my line of vision.

My first thought: wow, those shorts are way too short.

My second thought: um…I’m not sure he’s wearing underwear.

My third thought: Loose skin and old….yep there they are.

I almost got whiplash by how fast I turned my head away from the glimpse of junk I just saw. Good lord, what is wrong with these people? Granted, in my laying position I was at just the right angle to see it as he walked above me, but come on, keep that stuff in. Thank god for my quick reflexes, primed from having a brother whose friends who have an obsession for mooning. I owe them my preserved retinas, thank you pervert class of 2001.

As I turned my head I locked in on the scale. Ah, the mortal enemy. I have been avoiding the scale for a long time now, and it’s time to man up.

Well people, if you ever want to ensure a shitty start to your week, weigh yourself on a Monday morning after you’ve been drinking and eating crap all weekend. I was realistic about how bad things were, and I was kind of close on the number, but it was still worse than I thought.           

Well, there’s nothing like a depressing weigh-in to motivate you into seriousness. With Thanksgiving this week, this is about the worst time but I really have to get back on the good nutrition. Also, I have to really focus on getting some extra cardio and weight sessions in. No wonder I feel like I can’t run, I am carrying so much weight.

 After some intense stability ball crunches, I hurry into the locker room. T-minus 50 minutes until I have to be at work, and I have to look at least halfway decent.

My usual locker is located right in the heart of where the senior swim class congregates. Man these chicks are starting to really get on my nerves. They are just hanging out today, discussing their Thanksgiving plans.

"I told my daughter she can host Thanksgiving, because it's too much for me. But I don't like the way she is doing it so I'm going to meddle and bitch my way into taking it over, because no one is going to make a better turkey than me."

"My daughter-in-law doesn't want to use my china. Can you imagine? Girls just don't care about those things anymore. It's a shame, they just dont' want to use something that everyone is scared to eat off of or even wash because I'm biting my nails waiting for it to break. I wonder why that is."

Ok, I'm exaggerating, but that's what I hear when they talk about their trifles. I don't have time for this crap. I politely say "excuse me" "pardon me" as I desperately try to get past their idling bodies into my locker. These ladies say, "Oh, I'm sorry dear" as they make zero effort to move. I am forced to open a locker door gently into the back of one, and she finally moves. I get my stuff out and move to another part of the locker room. Now they can talk about how rude I am.

My new section definitely has less traffic, but it's right by the door. Any newcomer to the women's locker room is greeted with a nice view of me struggling to keep a towel around me as I change. It's really quite awkward and would probably be faster if I just went for it. Damn you, modesty.

The front of the locker room is also home to the TV that keeps a constant loop of "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" episodes. Why won't this show go away???

The people in this area, at first glimpse, are pretty serious gym go-ers. They are very fit people that are in and out. I want to be part of this group, because I also don't have all day to lollygag in a locker room, but I feel out of place. Especially since I don't dress like a gym skank. There's a lady wearing a spandex mini-skirt with a matching sports bra, and that's it. I have to admit, she had a banging body and she was definitely showing it off, but it really isn't necessary in the end of November. She puts on a zip-up jacket, which tells me she had no intention of wearing an actual shirt. Yeah, I bet you're cold, your sweat is freezing to your skin.
Good gravy (mmm, there will be some good gravy this week) is that woman wearing hair extensions? She had the kind of snarly, long bleach-blond hair that says "I got denied that the Rock of Love auditions, so I consoled myself by taking tequila shots and rubbing up on the lead singer of Poison's cover band. I'm still hot."
For those of you who will see me this weekend, yes, I will be wearing hair extensions, but not to the gym. And they will look real, unlike that girl's chest.
Well, between the call girls and this lady whispering to herself as she stretches and eyeballs me, I'm not sure the senior swim section is all bad. Wherever I go here, I see plenty. Never a dull moment at the gym.

Having a horrible week

            On Monday and this morning, I was really not looking forward to running. I also was not looking forward to writing about it. It’s been just terrible.

            I had a difficult run last Monday and was ill the rest of the week. So, Monday’s trip to the gym was breaking a week long hiatus. Normally, I run before going into work, but I went into the office early so I had to run afterward. I was on a time crunch because I was meeting some friends at Buffalo Wild Wings (don’t judge me) to watch some Monday Night Football.

            Being at the gym at six p.m. on a Monday is out of the ordinary for me, so I was unprepared when I pulled into the gym parking lot and it was full. I mean really full. There were people parked illegally and everything. Wow, all these people ordered pizza last night too? And feel extremely guilty? No, that was just me. Damn. I was forced to join the stream of cars that were zigzagging through the lot, waiting for a spot to open up. This is really annoying when you drive a rather large quad cab truck. Not only do you have to be picky about your spots, but people like to drive their little hippie sedans in the middle of the freaking parking lot lane.

After about five agonizing minutes of circling around and getting nowhere, I did something I normally hate to do; I stalked people who were walking out of the gym. Every time I do that, the theme from Jaws plays in my head as I ride my brake watching these people act like they don’t see me. They mentally give me the finger as they slowly shuffle their way down the middle of the parking lane were some car way smaller than mine is also waiting for a spot. I also am reminded of my childhood years of shopping in Sioux City with my mother. There was one mall that everyone in a fifty mile radius went to, and it was always packed. My mom always prided herself on finding a good parking spot, and patiently circled the lot until she found a spot that was a maximum five spots from the door. When it looks like she was getting her wish, she would start making sounds. “OH OH OH! LOOK AT THAT! I’m just going to pull into this spot right here. See this? Just. Like. This.” She shifts the car into park and looks at me. “Ha ha ha, looks like we were meant to be here,” she would say every time, no matter how long achieving this spot took. This skill served her well when her knees started giving out and she had to get knee surgery.

Well, I don’t have my mom’s patience or bad knees (yet) so I never carry through on the stalking. I get too uncomfortable and irritated. For this reason, it takes me about 12 minutes to get a spot, but it was a good one. Guess I was meant to be there.

The gym was as busy as the parking lot. I was lucky to get a treadmill. Well, lucky wasn’t really the word. I was completely dragging ass through my run. I tried to pick up where I failed the week previous, with intervals ranging from quarter to half miles. My whole body hurt and I could barely make it through a quarter mile. I don’t know if it’s a mental shift from time to distance, or if my body isn’t well. I think it’s probably the entire week I sat on my ass and did nothing. I didn’t think a week would set me back that much, but it obviously did.

Throughout the twenty minutes I would normally stride through intervals, I kept running, stopping, and making deals with myself on how far I should attempt to run. The guy next to me was doing a similar thing, only in sprint form. He hopped on and jacked up his speed so that I was tempted to look. 9.0 m.p.h. Damn. He would run for a respectable amount of time, then jump to the sides and stretch while he catches his breath. Sprint, then catch breath. Sprint, then catch breath. I am starting to doubt his muscles are that tight. Just slow down buddy.

I hope he was not paying as much attention to me, because it was jog, cuss, walk. Jog, cuss, walk. Jog, cuss, hit the big fat quitter button and stalk off. Come back, jog, cuss, then walk and shake my head at my failure. I also did a lot of head shaking when I watch the Redskins get slaughtered later that night.

This morning was much of the same. I feel like I can’t even reach my three minutes I did before. I am upset and unsure what to do. Do I go back a week, or struggle through the week I’m on? I tried just running as much as I could through my last ten minutes today, but it felt unstructured and non-productive.

All I can do is keep trying.

Recommended for You

            As some of you may know, I’m a little bit of a shop-a-holic. This is a nasty little habit that feels justified when you are constantly “growing” out of clothes. In the last couple of years, I have almost completely shied away from traditional store shopping and gone online. This has happened for a number of reasons:

1.      I worked in retail for three years. I will be ecstatic if I never see another mall again.

2.      I would rather pick out my size gi-normous jeans in privacy, and likewise cry in the privacy of my bathroom when they don’t fit.

3.      It’s convenient. I am almost always by a computer or my Blackberry. I can browse, think about it, then browse some more. When Victoria’s Secret re-formatted their site for Blackberry viewing, I about passed out from euphoria.

4.      There’s usually more of a selection. It’s rare that they are out of a size or color. And online exclusives? Yes, please. Also, the internet is not bound to floor space, so I don’t have to worry about going to “the crappy Target.”

So, clearly, online shopping is my choice. Sure, there are drawbacks. I end up returning half the stuff I order. I usually pick retailers who have a return policy that allows me to return in store. This way I can exchange, or just get more stuff, which hurts the wallet. Another drawback is that I get about ten emails a day beckoning me to come back for big big savings. I usually try to delete these without reading them, but I was not so diligent.

Younkers is having what they call e-busters for “Community Day.” I do not know what “Community Day” is and I really don’t care, but what does “e-busters” mean? Turns out, “e-busters” is a lazy online shopper’s wet dream. It’s the online equivalent to door-buster sales. I do not do these early-bird, Black Friday gimmick shit. I would rather spend more money and sleep then get my ass up early on a cold day and fight some old hag over discount elastic waistband pants. (that is a slight exaggeration. While elastic waistband pants are comfortable, I would never buy them because to me, that is officially giving up)

I am having a wonderful time perusing the deals on Younkers’ site. I mean, there are some old lady sweaters that are on sale for like twelve dollars. Ugly Sweater party anyone? I laugh as I see the original price. Why would anyone pay $40.00 for a sweater called Kitty Play? Apple Gathering? Maybe some Birdsong Swag to go with my leisure pants.

Just then, karma caught up with me. I glanced at the “Recommended for You” tab and the gurus at younkers.com apparently think I would fancy a pair of plus size Baby Phat skinny jeans with studded hardware on the leg. (For those of you who don’t know, Baby Phat is a clothing line geared toward young African American women. Some of their stuff is ok, but some of it is kind of skanky)

So, not only has Younkers figured out that I’m chunky, but they also think I want to look like a ho. Awesome. That’s exactly what everyone needs to see, brass buttons adorning the pantleg that is choking my cankles.

This is not the first time Recommended tabs have let me down. Amazon.com thinks I’m desperate and lonely. Their recommendations for Kindle reading have usually been very good for me; I have found many good books that way. But, when my recommendations started featuring bare-chested men and women and corsets on the covers, I had to really had to re-evaluate my reading material. Damn you, Thorn Birds, messing up my recommendations.

I can’t figure out where Younkers got that suggestion, but I know that my shopping energy is shot. Much like my gym energy. Monday we are back on the horse for sure.

(Shit, those novels usually had people on horseback. Damn you Amazon.)

           

Pants Cause Murderous Rage: A Rainy Day Story

            After a few weeks on week four of the training program, I finally got the courage on Monday to try on week five for size. Me and trying things on doesn’t normally go well, but I’m pretty happy that I’m technically at the halfway point of this program.

            Up until now, I have looked at the next week and thought to myself, well that seems doable. This is honestly the first time I’ve looked at my plan and felt genuine dread. It sat at the pit of my stomach like the homemade mac and cheese I made this weekend. Or the drive-thru food. Or the smoked ribs. Or the superdog. Or the pizza. Or the pasta. Or the staggering amount of drinks I had. Yeah, that was a typical weekend in college for me, and I re-lived it this weekend. Some people wake up one morning, look in the mirror and wonder, how did I get this fat?
            I have seriously never asked myself that question, because it’s pretty obvious. Just look at all the shit I ate this weekend. But I had fun, a lot of fun.
            After all the fun I had this weekend, combined with my increased intervals, I had a terrible day at the gym. I am at the point in my intervals where I can actually track it by distance. Week five consists of running 0.25 miles, then walking for 90 seconds, running 0.5 miles, then walking for 2.5 minutes. Repeat.
            Well, repeat in theory. I felt like crap at the gym and couldn’t make my half mile. I tried stopping for a very short time and giving it another go. I tried this three times, then gave up and went to the elliptical in shame.
            This was an epic failure, and I felt very down about myself. It got even worse at bowling that night. It’s a sad moment when a ball that belonged to your sweet old grandmother suddenly feels too heavy for you. As the week wore on, I discovered that I am getting sick. I have been sick pretty much since Monday night, and finally caved today and called in.
            I passed out in a NyQuil coma last night and didn’t wake up until Josh was getting ready for work. I woke up the sensation of clothes being thrown onto the bed. Josh was sorting through the pants pile on the top of our dresser. I was glad he was sorting through the pile, because our pants in such close proximity always made me think of the jeans incident.
            Many people already know this story, but it is worth telling.
            Two summers ago, my entire family came to visit in Kansas City. This was the first time my sister and I got to meet my brother’s girlfriend (now wife). On a Saturday, my dad, husband, brother, and brother-in-law went golfing. My mom, sister, future sister-in-law and I went shopping. My mother was mostly along for the ride, since she knocked out most of her shopping the day before at Stein-Mart by my apartment. We got to hear about all the beautiful designer clothes she got at discount prices for herself and my father.
            After shopping and golfing, everyone was to meet up at my sister’s apartment for a grill-out. My husband and my father stopped at my apartment to change clothes.
            It should be noted here that my mother lays out clothing for my dad every day. It is not just a sweet gesture; it is because she is not confident in his ability to dress himself. She always talks the time that they were dating and he came to pick her up in a burgundy paisley shirt and orange plaid bell bottoms. From that day on she did all his shopping and wardrobing.
            Dad puts on the clothes he feels he was instructed to wear, and comes out of the spare bedroom with a strange look on his face. “Do these jeans look right to you?” he asks Josh.
            Josh gives my dad a once over, but chooses his words carefully, because he knows my mom does all the shopping. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen jeans like that before.”
            “She said they were a new cut. I don’t know. I guess I better wear them. I can’t get my wallet into the front pocket though. It’s not right. Do you put your wallet into your front pocket?”
            Josh shakes his head.
            “No? Well you should,” Dad says. “I guess these are my new jeans.”
            Josh and Dad walk into Anna’s living room where my mom is relaxing. The rest of us kids are cooking in the kitchen. Josh dutifully sits down by my mother, because he is a kiss-ass and very good at it, as my mother scrutinizes my father’s outfit.
            “Where did you get those jeans?” she asks my father.
            “They were on the bed with my other clothes,” Dad answers.
            My mother pauses, not satisfied. “Come here, let me see them.”
            Sensing the imminent danger, Dad stays where he is. “They…they were the ones you laid out,” he starts to stammer.
            I watch as my mother goes from totally calm into a fiery rage. “Are you….ARE YOU WEARING MY JEANS????? OH MY GOD YOU ARE WEARING MY JEANS. WHY DO YOU DO THIS? WHY?”
            My siblings and I are trying to hold in our laughter in the kitchen, but my husband, in the middle of it all, bursts into hysterical guffaws.
            “I…I…just wore the jeans you laid out for me,” Dad explains.
            “NO YOU DIDN’T. YOU HAD TO DELIBERATELY GO INTO THE SUITCASE AND SEARCH FOR THOSE. THOSE ARE MY NEW DESIGNER JEANS!”
            I take a look at the jeans in question, and they are no doubt women’s jeans. They are shiny iridescent denim with small embroidered pockets on the butt, and my dad looks surprisingly good in them.
            As I admire Dad’s figure, Josh notices my mother is dangerously close to speaking in tongues and stabbing my father. Kansas is a dangerous place to be so angry. Luckily, my sister has probably the only residence in the whole state without a firearm. Josh, realizing how serious this sitution has become, abruptly pulls my dad out of the house to go pants shopping.
            I hold back giggles as I try to console my mother.
            “You don’t understand. He’s done this before. We wore my new jeans in the hog barn. Twice. I can’t get the hog shit smell out. They are ruined.”
            “Mom, he doesn’t mean to do it. Really (stifled giggle) he doesn’t. Why would he choose to make you so upset?”
            “He just doesn’t care. It’s so hard for me to find jeans that are nice on me.”
            I definitely understand where she is coming from there. “It’s not that he doesn’t care, it’s just that he doesn’t pay attention. Trust me, this is way more embarrassing for him than it is for you.”
            Meanwhile, Josh finds a JCPenny and is mercilessly making fun of my father. They walk in straight to the women’s section, and the teasing ensues. Josh desperately tries to get some baggy ‘Lil John gangsta-style jeans. Nearly thirty years of marriage to my mother has sunk in a little, and Dad knows deep down that is the wrong choice. He does, however, come striding in with sweet Arizona Jean Company black denim jeans, throwback to 1992. I believe Danny Tanner used to wear the same kind. Josh earns some gold-toe socks for his effort.
            Mom has calmed down at this point, but the claws are still out.
            “Where’d you get those jeans? God, those are ugly,” she spat at my father.
             My father, trying to re-gain a sense of pride, says, "I like them. What's wrong with them? They're my jeans." He flashes me a smile.
            My brother-in-law leans over to me. “How awkward would it be if I came out of the bedroom wearing your sister’s jeans?” I laugh and offer him money to do it. He doesn’t.
            Out of all this, I got the perfect closing to my matron of honor speech at my sister’s wedding, a good story to tell, and an overwhelming fear my husband will accidently wear my clothes. Josh has way better legs than me and I would get insanely jealous. He did try on some knee-high boots once and has been forbidden to do that again. Other than the fact I am not into cross-dressing, his legs are breathtaking.
            I have been struggling through illness all week and plan to get some runs in this weekend. I am starting to see some definite results in my lower body. Who knows, I will have better legs than my husband, or even my dad before long.

Standing Outside the Fire

            I talked to my sister this week and she asked if me I was doing to do an actual race. Well, I don’t know about the race part, but I plan on doing some kind of event where I would publicly stumble through a 5k. Originally, I had planned on just finding a race when I felt ready, but today I thought that maybe I should scope it out now. That way I have a clear goal of when I should be ready, not the other way around. The truth is, I may never feel ready. I’m really worried about that, among other things.

            I feel it’s pretty obvious that I have never graced any running event with my presence, so I have no idea what they are like. All my very fit friends and relatives always squeal, “OH, YOU SHOULD GO! IT’S SO MUCH FUN!” Yeah, fun when it’s over.

So, I really have no idea what I’m getting into. I don’t know any rules; I don’t know any runner’s etiquette. I’m not going to know when I’m doing something wrong. This is something I’m really going to have to look into, but for now I have a really idealized view of what that day will look like. It will be around 70 to 75 degrees out. It will be partly cloudy with a slight breeze. This breeze will run through my hair as I glide over the trail. I will be very tan, and very skinny. Sweat will slightly glisten my brow and my new running outfit. I will have a perfectly timed playlist on my iPod that will keep my energy and excitement up. My family and friends will be waiting at the finish line, cheering me on with bottles of Budweiser in hand. People will embrace, streamers will fly, the penguin from Billy Madison will dance in the background. “Chariots of Fire” (google it if you don’t know) plays in the background as I cross the finish line with a smile on my face. We celebrate in delicious Anheuser-Busch foam.

But, in reality, it will probably look more like the music video “Standing Outside the Fire by Garth Brooks, without the parental conflict. I will attempt to attach that link here. If I am not successful, please look it up on YouTube and watch the video in its entirety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnDNC1VvoPw&p=2DC780D454EAC081&playnext=1&index=5

           Yep, that’s the kid who played Corky on “Life Goes On.” I barely remember that show, so I couldn’t figure out why my brother called me Corky. This annoyed me to no end. Then I saw it on an episode of "I love the '80s." That's when I realized my brother is an asshole.

            I had a great run today and I am terrified to move onto next week. Especially since this weekend is going to be a shitshow. Go Cyclones!

Pants on the Ground

            As I said multiple times at work yesterday, I have decided to start using my cooking powers for good, not evil. In my efforts to eat better, I have started researching healthy recipes. Last night I made a light chicken and pasta dish with a side salad. No vodka cream sauce, just healthy goodness. My husband was very supportive. “This is going to be a test of your skills. It’s easy to make a healthy dish that takes like shit,” he said through a mouth full of pasta. Very true, dear, very true.

            Of course, I had some white wine while I was cooking. As I write this, I’m eating a fun-sized Reese’s Pieces. Damn you, leftover Halloween candy.

            Baby steps, baby steps.

            I went to the gym today feeling very good. White wine doesn’t give you that dehydrated feeling red wine does. I know, that doesn't make it better, just an observation.
            I got started on my intervals. My running feels actually pretty decent. My body feels efficient and I feel like I can handle it. I feel confident I can move on to next week. But, as always, there was a problem. My pants had other plans for me.

            I got these running capris at Target, just like all the rest. The first time I pulled them on, and just about every time after, they have felt pretty tight. I pull on them regardless and usually my pants respond with a popping sound. I have the keen ear of a piano tuner when comes to the sound of clothes reaching their limit. I deemed the popping harmless. However, as much as I’d like to believe that I’m losing weight and these pants are too big, the reality is I’ve probably already ruined the spandex. That’s pretty depressing, since I’ve only worn these pants three times.

            I have lost weight in my lower body, but not so much that my pants would drop like I was at a sorority formal (sorry Greeks). But, my fat was actually pulling my pants down. When I would take a running step, butt and gut would sling downward simultaneously. Then, my pant's remaining elastic would kick in and stay in place while butt and gut bounce upward as I take my next step. Peek-a-boo muffin top. Speed this terrible, ugly slow-motion image up to my running speed (which isn’t much at all) and I have pants that need to be pulled up about every 45 seconds.

            Again, this seems like a great reason to quit. I mean, how many wardrobe malfunctions does it take to get me to a 5k? It’s like a bad joke. Also, how many times am I going to have to deal with bodily functions? Because I had to pee really bad again.

            After my second to last run, I step off the track to make about the 15^th adjustment to my pants. At that point, my fatty voice speaks up.

            This feels like a good point to stop.

            Why? Other than my stupid bladder being too big for these pants, my run is going very well today. I might actually enjoy this if it wasn’t about to be a remake of the “Thong Song” video.

            That’s just it. Do you really want to show your ass to everyone? It’s not like you can’t finish, you just are choosing not to. Who’s going to care?

            Well, I don’t want to write about quitting. This has happened too often before, and I refuse to lie about my triumphs. All you readers are holding me accountable, thank you. So, I finished, and made a beeline for the bathroom again.

            I come out of the stall and that stupid show “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” is on. Now, if you are a woman, I guarantee you just either gasped or made some kind of noise when you read that. We all do, that show is fucking terrifying. And it is ALWAYS on. Great, I feel like I always have to pee, and now I’m paranoid about it. That show is not cool for chubby chicks like myself. It’s bad enough that strangers have asked me how far along I am (that happened once a coup le of years ago). I don’t need to believe it. My day is now ruined, thanks TLC.

           

Nice morning? Depends

Monday morning was another morning that I was running late. I was moving slowly and didn’t get to tan before going to the gym, but no worries, my Snooki spray-tan turned out disappointingly natural-looking. Who would have thought two layers of bronzer and one layer of spray would look this good? I was feeling fine as I walked in this morning, then I realized I had to renew my gym membership.

            There is a gym that just went up right next to my office, and I seriously considered joining, especially when I noticed that I would probably be the only one in the gym the whole time. That would be awesome. Wait, no, that would not be awesome. Who am I going to make fun of?

            So, long story short, I am paying an extra six dollars a month to get 24/7 access to creepy gym go-ers and a pool I swear I’m going to use someday. Hey, writers have to suffer for their work.

            Renewing my membership put me even more behind so I threw my shit into a locker and hurried onto the treadmill. I am STILL on the same interval as last week. I have told myself that I will successfully complete this interval three times this week and move on. I need to move on. I looked at next week’s intervals and felt short of breath just looking. That’s almost as sad as when I got out of breath halfway through eating a rather large cookie. Yes, that really happened. There comes a moment in every fat person’s life where you discover that you aren’t just having a little food craving, you are just eating like a pig. Well, that panting moment was one. Another moment was when I wiped my perspiring brow and pushed through the rest of the cookie. If only I had the same drive to push through my running. Damn good cookie though.

            I was worried going into today, because my dinner last night consisted of only wine. I know that is not proper fuel and is very dehydrating, so I tried to chug water while Trainer Twiggy McSkinnyAss tried to smile her way into selling me some packages. Was that jealousy talking? Yeah, she was actually really nice. Well, maybe someone will be jealous of me someday.

            I actually felt very strong today, and I can really tell my body is making progress with this training. I know this because I could listen to happy music while doing my 90 second running interval. Of course, for the three minute, I needed to step back to the angry music.

            It should be noted that not only do I have poor hearing, but this angry music needs to be BLARING to motivate me. This might be why the girl two treadmills down started staring at me. Or it could be the fact that my treadmill is shaking like a 9.0 magnitude earthquake from the impact of my massive body. Either way, this amount of staring was unacceptable. I do the staring around here, which is exactly how I get her to stop. I turn my eyes to stare at her. She instantly avoids eye contact, but I hold my stare until she meets my eyes again. Hold for five seconds, repeat if necessary. Guess who’s not getting stared at anymore?

            A variation of this practice is really effective for guys at the gym. I was stretching out one fine day after a workout, and was getting eyeballed by some juiced up doucher lifting weights. Now what is so compelling that he would tear his eyes away from working his pecks in the mirror? Back in the day I would have said he was admiring my fine ass, but the reality of these days is that he was more impressed by the massive sweat marks under said ass. Or maybe he’s impressed that a chick this big is still flexible. Big deal, so was Chris Farley. That didn’t work out well in the end.

            Whatever the reason, I don’t like it. I stare back. Eye contact is made, and I smile at him. He nervously looks away. I laugh to myself. He thinks that I think he is interested in me. He dares to look again and I give him a little nod with my smile. Nice, now his eyes are plastered to that mirror, even when I walk by and drop a “Bye” on my way out. I think he learned his lesson.

            Whatever your style, try it sometime when someone has a little staring problem.

Anyway, during my second interval, I start to feel strange. It was a tired feeling, but not that tired, I can’t describe it. I go into my last three minutes and my body goes into quit mode. At this point I’m just angry that I feel like quitting when I get so close. Why does this happen? I’m not in pain, I can actually breathe. I tell myself to enjoy the fact that I don’t feel like death, I should just do my run and stop being such a baby. I’m so close to finishing, my resolve should be stronger.

            During my last three minutes, I realize what is wrong. I have to piss like the dickens. Just when I thought there couldn’t possibly be another jiggle in my wiggle, I experienced what felt like my bladder dancing around like jello. Oh my god, I just wrote about basically crapping myself due to diet pills, and now I need depends to go the gym. Well, the old Amy would have used this as a perfect excuse to stop running. I mean, no one wants to piss themselves on the treadmill right? Maybe that’s why the senior swim ladies feel so comfortable in the water. They don't make water-proof Depends. They don't need to. Ew, pretty sure I'm never using that pool.

            No, I have come too far. I finish my run, even though each step feels like I’m stepping on my bladder. I waddle to the locker room ohmygodohmygodohmygodshitshitshit and rush into the first stall I see. There’s toilet paper hanging off the side of the seat, do I go to another stall? No, too much time. I brush the paper aside and have a piss that’s better than cheesecake, and I really like cheesecake.

            Ah, much better. I go and finish my gym time on the elliptical. Back to the locker room I go to shower and change. As I strip, I notice all this white fuzz on my butt. All my workout pants are strictly black, so I’m confused. Then I see the strip of toilet paper. Damn. In my haste to the bathroom, I didn’t brush aside that piece of TP like I thought. I have spent the last 20 minutes with some leftovers hanging out of my pants. Well that’s real sexy.

            So I learned my lesson, no more red wine the night before a workout. Had I not felt the need to chug water beforehand, I wouldn't have come into contact with that TP.