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.