I'm kind of hard to miss. I'm the girl who shuffles by in tattered sweatpants, looking like she's about to keel over, breathing in ragged gasps.
You know how they say that you should find a pace that still allows you to keep up a conversation? Yeah, for me, that's called walking. Anything faster will immediately result in the gulps and wheezes you're hearing now, and make all my blood rush right up to my steaming face. I'm not talking about your charming Southern belle type flush either. I'm talking the kind of splotchy purple people turn when they're being choked or drowned, and it will stay like that for at least an hour after I've already showered. There's nothing I can do about this.
I'm fully aware of what I look like, which is why the struggle to get my butt out the door and face you all is a million times harder than what I'm doing now, meaning the real battle has already been fought and won about half an hour ago in the privacy of my own home. This thing you are witnessing now is in fact my victory lap.
And even though after a couple of minutes my vision blurs so much it's amazing I'm still able to stick to this stupid path instead of wildly veering off-road into a meadow somewhere, I can see you, too.
There's those of you who look so genuinely worried that every time we cross paths I make a mental note to make myself a T-shirt that says: "Honestly, I'm fine!" as I see you all preparing to call me an ambulance and going over what you remember from CPR in your head. I appreciate your concern, but I swear it isn't half as bad as it looks.
There's the soccer moms who avert their gaze while silently thanking their stars they never let themselves get this out of hand. I get where you're coming from. You can totally feel good about yourself. I am happy to provide this service for you, while I secretly do, too.
There's Russian crew-cut guy who always sticks to the grassy bank and stops every 50 yards or so to do push ups without vomiting even a little bit, and whom I secretly elected as my favorite because he hasn't looked at me even once, caught up as he is in his own Serious Business.
Then there are those I affectionately term 'Them Gazelle Bitches' who manage to not even break a sweat as they bouncety-bounce past my line of vision achieving a perfect 50/50 split between horizontal and vertical motion while still able to spare the energy to smirk at me as they go by, thereby proving that it is indeed possible to look superior while wearing orange spandex. I always wonder how smug they would look if they were forced to wear a 60 pound backpack of jiggly pudge, but I know I brought this on myself, and that's just fine.
Personally, I try as hard as I can to keep any vertical motion to an absolute minimum, due to all the flab, and because I have this voice in my head that keeps telling me I don't deserve any fancy shit like a sports bra or proper running shoes until I've at least proven that I can finish this damn couch-to-5k program and the farthest I've ever gotten was about halfway in. And those shoes, no matter how much I still love them because they have naked ladies on them, admittedly have seen better days, and make whatever I'm doing look like shambling at the very best. But the point is that I'm doing it.
And when I've finally put in my pathetic little circuit of 1 minute intervals, I get to walk home all proud and splotchy purple while listening to Explosions in the Sky and wallowing in fresh, free dopamine that I made with my own brain, added to the rush of getting to tell myself that I did it! I really did it! and I feel absolutely fucking invincible.
So you can all suck it.
|These have seen better days. And by that I mean the 90's.|
* If any of you are at all aware of the fat shaming wars that have been happening on Reddit recently, you can consider this my two cents. And you don't absolutely have to suck it if you don't want to. :)
Update: I ended up deciding to listen to all you lovely people and your worries, so I went out and got myself a sports bra (fun fact: this post actually earned me a Google search result for "make your own sports bra" - how about no?). The shoes were a birthday gift from the boyfriend.
Not so fun fact: there were only about three pairs that were recommended for women over 75kg (I suppose nobody wants to see fat girls running), and these were the least pink ones. Are we supposed to assume that the heavier girls get, the more they aspire to be Disney princesses? Because I can assure you that I don't. Oh and the sports bra might come in handy when I finally decide to try that auto-asphyxiation thing all the kids are talking about these days. Because, you know, orgasms.
Update 2: Yeah... I think I may just stick with the old Kappas for now...
Update 3: So I superglued my old sneakers anywhere the soles were coming off and went for another run in them today. My feet are happy.
PS: Anybody want to buy some shoes? They're only a little bit pink...
Update 4: So! After some minor harassment, the store where I bought the evil murdershoes let me exchange them after all!
Now I am the proud owner of what may just be the ugliest shoes ever created by man:
But they don't destroy my feet, and I also could never stay mad at anything that makes this face at me: