Be grateful I shaved. It is, after all, still cold here and I need all the insulation I can get.
You’re looking at ugly Barney the Purple Dinosaur shoes because The Diva asked me several months back if I’d be willing to run her school’s Turkey Trot with her (that’s a race in November, not a bird with diarrhea) and I caved in like a fallen souffle to accomodate her wishes.
It’s three miles. Three. Miles. And you run it. Or, as will be my case, trot it.
Mind you, I am the woman who once told her doctor that I’d never run unless something rabid and foaming at the mouth was chasing me.
She had such a look on her face. Please, Mommy, run with me and I won’t grow up with issues of abandonment stemming from the fact that my mother never played with me. Just think, you might save the world from yet another serial killer or washed up talk show host. Geraldo, anyone? Naturally, my first thought was why the hell she didn’t ask her Daddy, but I already knew the answer. He’s smarter than me and totally immune to pouting females. Trust me, I’ve had almost twenty-one years of practice. Himself is one tough nut to crack.
By the start of April, I figured I was burning precious time and if I was expected to run and actually NOT expire during or immediately after the event, I’d better get a move on and start training. Dying, after all, would be extremely unseemly on my part. Wouldn’t want to warp anyone else’s kids…I’m having way too much fun doing that to my own.
Newsflash: I haven’t run since Bill Clinton was in office…does this tell you anything? Other than the fact that I don’t like cigars. Sorry, couldn’t resist.
Runner’s World magazine tells me I’m supposed to ‘work up’ to running by committing to a run/walk routine for thirty minutes a day, three days a week for three weeks. Day one, Monday, was a bee-otch, but I made it. I bet it wasn’t pretty either. Picture it: purple shoes, hot pink ball cap, navy pants and a ‘Mom with an Attitude’ t-shirt. I looked like a float in a Liberace memorial parade. Tuesday went much better. I ran a grand total…brace yourselves…of 1.2 miles. Not all at once, for Pete’s sake…I’d be dead already! Today, was Day Three. And on the third day, I launched my lunch. Now there’s a visual for ya. You’re welcome. I’m hoping against hope that the whole running thing isn’t like shampooing your hair….lather, rinse, repeat…because I can’t bear the thought of eyeballing my lunch a second time without a logical medical reason like pregnancy or Ebola.
In three days, I’ve discovered something fairly interesting about the whole running industry. Every woman, from the chirpy twentysomething to the diehard ‘run ’til I croak’ grande dame, is flatter than Calista Flockhart. Why didn’t God give these chicks boobs? Why did He give me not only seconds, but third helpings of bodacious bosom? Do you think I can find a sports bra that fits? Negative, Ghost Rider. I’m currently running in two bras: my regular non-Victoria’s Secret bra (you know the kind with wide straps like the ones you see on semi trucks hauling extra bulky loads) and a sports bra pre-Co Defendant #2 (back when I could still see my feet over the view from my chest). Ever worn a sports bra? If you’re a man, please, please say no. They’re uncomfortable. I can handle Matilde and Clotilde being squashed; it’s the lack of oxygen I can’t stand. As soon as I finished up today’s run, I was back in the car shucking that puppy. Yes, it can be done without removing your shirt. I’m versatile that way. I’m fairly certain the guy a few trucks over was watching the whole gyrating extravaganza, the dirty bird. Thanks to technology, you can probably look for a You Tube video coming your way soon.
In the meantime, I’ll endeavor to persevere. I’ll be damned if I don’t finish this thing to the bitter end. One helpful co-worker said The Diva would probably un-invite me by the time November rolls around. She wishes. By then, I’ll be bounding gracefully…my legs, not my boobs…like a gazelle. Or at least lumbering like hippo. Either one works as long as I finish with a pulse. And my lunch.