This will be harder than I thought.

            This blog, my first, is how I will document my journey as I complete the couch to 5k training program. This blog will, in theory, focus on my experiences as a new runner. However, I’m sure my incessant rambling will turn this blog into something else. There will probably be a fair share of adult language, disgusting, and disturbing material. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to read it

            I am rather sporadic when it comes to fitness. There are periods where I will be hard core about going to the gym, eating right, and cutting back on the beer (or just heavy beer). I can’t really pinpoint where I usually revert back into my over-eating, nap taking self, but I usually think it’s when a change occurs in my life. Moving, switching jobs or classes all have created setbacks.

            Peter, the lead character in Office Space, quoted that each day of his life was worst than the last, so that when you see him, it’s the worst day of his life. I’m not so melodramatic, but the same is true with my weight. Usually when you see me, I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been. Or probably feel the shittiest.

            It hasn’t always been this way. Last year I had an amazing trainer, Nikki, who also became a good friend of mine. I had lost 20 pounds with her and countless inches. Then I made the move from Kansas City to Omaha. I vowed that I would invite her to come see me because she has always wanted to see the Omaha Zoo. I have never called her, not once in a year, because I don’t want her to see me after I gained all the weight back.

            So here I am, and what the hell happens now? Well, I am going back to the gym, but for some reason I get the feeling that I should be running. It’s probably because my sister is an avid runner, and it just seems like a great way to burn off calories, or even some steam. You can do it anywhere, and the results are obvious. My sister runs half-marathons and aspires to run a full one. I have no illusions of ever going that far. The truth is, I’ve tried running in the past, and I fucking hate it. I mean really hate it. Not like, “oh it’s so hard for me to get to the gym but when I get there I love it.” I mean I loathe every goddamn second I am wheezing and shuffling my feet pathetically on that goddamn treadmill at wheelchair speed.

            Why do I persist? Well, I feel if I stick it out, it will get less embarrassing and I might enjoy it. I can be one of those people who will say, “I will go for a quick run.”

            Last week, I decided to start running. I’ve worked my way up to three miles before, so I’m not completely clueless to what I am doing. I also was not looking forward to it. My boss mentioned the couch to 5k program, which is designed to train lazy asses like myself to run a 5k. I looked it over and it sounded like everything I needed. It’s pretty basic interval training, and it looks very doable.

            I started my first run Tuesday night and did my second one Wednesday morning. Running for one minute and walking for 90 seconds looked very easy. It was really sad how hard it was for me. I was thinking how it is only going to get harder. Maybe I should go back to the drawing board and find a bar stool to 5k plan. Where’s the bed to 5k plan? Can I get in on that?

            Now, three times a week I go to work at nine a.m. and other days I go to work at eleven. Ideally, I would do my runs on my late mornings, but I have to fit three in and I don’t trust myself to run on the weekend, so I have to get my ass out of bed at 6:30 on Fridays to get my run in. That doesn’t sound so bad for most people, but many people don’t know what a big pile of shit I really am. Every single morning when my alarm goes off, regardless of the time, I have to talk myself out of turning off my phone and alarm and staying in bed. I have to put my alarm clock or phone across the room so I am forced to get out of bed to turn the alarm off. For work purposes, this works fine. For gym purposes, my mind starts rationalizing why I shouldn’t go to the gym and should stay in bed for that extra time. Judging from the fact that my dresses are starting resemble circus tents, my anti-gym rationale is strong.

            But, this Friday, that third run requirement won out, and I made it to the gym by seven. I can honestly say I have never darkened the door of my gym this early, with the exception of my sister’s visit last week. It was a completely different crowd.

            Basically, the early morning crew has two distinct groups: the super motivated people who are in excellent shape. Maybe some day I will be like them, but for now I ignore the vast majority of them.  

            Then I noticed the second group: the elderly.

            I was shocked to find so many old people at this gym. It makes sense I guess, old people like to get up early. The fact that there were so many wasn’t flooring, but I took notice of them for many reasons. The first reason unsettling observation about these old people is that they all are in way better shape than me. That sucks that 80 year old Martha could probably kick my ass. And Old Liver Spots next to me was schooling my pace on a run. The air between our adjoining treadmills was filled with the overpowering scent of Ben Gay and shame. What a great way to start my fucking weekend.

            I also noticed a bunch of old ladies cackling around to each other. I have an admitted prejudice to elderly ladies at my gym ever since the senior swim class incident. Oh you don’t know that story? Well let me fill you in.

            On one of my gym spurts a few months ago, I discovered the end of my workout corresponds with the end of swim aerobics. The youngest chick in this class is about 60 years old. They seem very comfortable in the locker room. They talk about their kids, their grandkids, and typical old people stuff. “I filled my prescription yesterday and it cost me a whole dollar more than last month. I yelled at the young girl at the counter and she said it was up my insurance, she couldn’t do anything. Well I thought it better to yell at her. I’m not calling my insurance company, and I’ll just bitch about it for the next five years every month when I get this medicine I have to take.”

            Their banter never really bothered me. I will probably be concerned about the same things when I’m their age. I even admired their drive to come to classes and socialize in various stages of undress. Then they got catty.

            I went to another part of the locker room to put on my make-up, do my hair, etc, and then I heard the familiar sound of age envy.

            “Did you see her underdrawers? How can she wear that string up her butt?”

            “Waving her fanny out there. I wonder what she does. She’s probably a ‘dancer.’”

            What the fuck? Where do you get off you old bitches? By “dancer,” I have the overwhelming feeling you are not referring to the jitterbug. I think you must be confusing me when the woman your husband visited in the war. And she probably wore bikini underwear. You can’t judge an ass by its cover, ladies. Remember the clap? I bet you do.

            In the middle of their bitchy laughter, I came around the corner to stunned silence. I said, “For anyone who wants to know, I work at a school.” I grabbed my suit jacket and strutted out.

            Well anyway, every elderly lady in that place is a suspected senior swim bitch, and they make me angry. That makes me run better.     

            I look forward to familiarizing myself with a different group of people than the senior swim class. Maybe I will make some new friends. This is going to be an interesting journey.