Jul
11

Bowed But Not Broken (Yet).

In an attempt to look less…porcine by the time my wedding rolls around, I recently decided to resume exercising. Thanks to the excellent advice of DoctorMama, I even had a foolproof plan. Or thought I did.

The Actually looked concerned when I told him I planned to turn myself into A Runner—not just A Person Who Runs, mind you. This was about more than losing weight, this was about feeling sporty and flooded with endorphins, thinking peaceful, no-doubt profoundly wise thoughts as I flew through the neighborhood in the early hours of the morning, my body strong and capable, inspiring envy and occasional lust in those I passed.

“I see,” said the Actually, “And when was the last time you ran anywhere?”
I thought for a moment.
“Fifth grade.”
I knew it would be a challenge, but by god I was ready.

I hadn’t read The Plan in a while, but I remembered the two key points: 1) The Plan is suitable for the unathletic, and 2) it requires you to run for 30 minutes, every other day.
So! Off I go!

Problem #1—I am a D cup. I do not own a sports bra.
No matter, I thought to myself, I will wear my regular bra, only on a higher setting. Straps tightened, breasts hoisted to my chin, I bounded down the steps and onto the street.
Um…OW.
I thought running would be like walking, only faster. This was patently not the case. Running, in fact, is a lot like hopping. Or at least, that is what it felt like to my pectoral muscles. With each downward bounce I was becoming increasingly convinced that my breasts were about to tear clean off my body, where they would lie, pale and jigging, on the pavement.

Problem #2—I can’t read instructions.
I made a special half-hour playlist—a little Roy Ayers, a little Leon Haywood, perhaps a smidge of Latyrx–on my iPod, exactly the length of my run. The first song was magical–I was running! Whee!
It was early morning, and I had the neighborhood to myself. There was no one to laugh at me as I moved slowly through the sleepy, hilly streets. The only sounds were my cardiovascular system, the thudding of my shoes, and Gnarls Barkely asking “Oh did you walk or did you run away…”
Unfortunately, by the end of the second song, I was beginning to have serious doubts that I could run for the entire prescribed thirty minutes. By the end of the third song, I was no longer concerned that I wouldn’t last 30 minutes running, I was worried that I wouldn’t last thirty minutes AT ALL. Running, walking, crawling homeward on my hands and knees—all sounded unbearably strenuous, and I found myself wondering idly who would find my body, and how far I would be from my house when I was discovered.
At this point, I was approximately three blocks away.

I made it home under my own power, after 14 minutes of running. Nixon-esque rivulets of sweat ran over my face, and I was mortified. As I remembered, DoctorMama had implied that ANYONE could run for 30 minutes. I hadn’t even made it half way! I panted for a while, and may or may not have cried a little, wondering whether I had some sort of disability.
On my way to the kitchen for water (and possibly a Dove bar of defeat), I opened my laptop and clicked over to read the original post of The Plan:

“In the beginning, you might only be able to run for TEN MINUTES of your half hour.” (Emphasis mine)
Motherfuck.

Problem #3 presented itself a few hours later, in the form of horrific shin splints. Horrific enough that every movement for the rest of the day was accompanied by a chorus of “OW!EHH!SPLINTY!”
You might think that the Actually occupied himself entirely that afternoon in bringing me ice packs and restorative wine slushies, but you would be wrong. Oh, so wrong.
I will say no more about it, except that this disrespectful sort of mocking had better not continue after our wedding.

The last problem took the longest to appear. I awoke the next morning, ready to face the day, and swung my legs out of bed…or did I?
I appeared to have been paralyzed from the waist down.
Problem #4? Quadriceps like cement. Only hurtier.
It took me a full quarter of an hour to walk from my car into my office. Once there, I didn’t eat breakfast because I couldn’t bear the trek to the cafeteria.
Worse than the pain of walking shuffling was the fact that after spending any length of time at my desk, my muscles would seize in a sitting position. To get up from said position required a complicated system of cantilevering, a death-grip on the back of my chair, and Deadwood-quality obscenities muttered in a workplace-friendly whisper. That evening the Actually and I feasted on delivered restaurant food because the distance from the couch to the kitchen seemed untenable to me.
{Ed. Note to any attorneys reading this: Is there some sort of Mocking Clause I could insert into a pre-nup?}

So there you have it—surely any fool would realize after this that she was not made for running. Surely any fool could see that this obsession with “exercise” can lead to nothing but further consolatory Dove bar consumption and eventual ruin.

Well not this fool, by god. I’m going back out just as soon as I regain the ability to flex my toes.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |