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.