A waist is a terrible thing to mind
When I was in eighth grade I did a short stint in Track and Field with the high school team. Eighth graders were encouraged to participate in high school track, presumably so that their appetites would be whetted for future Track and Field glory. The first day of practice, I was as nervous as you might expect a short skinny white girl with no previous athletic experience taking to the track with giant long-legged high school senior runners to be. Something about lining up with a bunch of other people to run (still) sets my digestive system in motion, if you know what I mean. The very first thing we were asked to do was run two warm up laps, which as it turns out, is half a mile. Which as it also turns out was the farthest distance I had ever run up to that point in my life. After puffing through lap one, I mentally patted myself on the back for my athletic badassery, hocking up a big wad of runner’s mouth goop and spitting it on the ground. (Or at least in the direction of the ground. I was not yet familiar with the tricky aerodynamics of projectile loogies.) “THANK YOU FOR NOT SPITTING ON THE TRACK,” the bullhorn blared in my direction. After which I again mentally patted myself on the back- this time for not shitting my pants in front of the giant square-jawed drill-sergeant track coach and every single guy I might possibly be interested in dating for the next four or five years of my adolescence.
Lap two didn’t go so well, I’m not gonna lie. Around turn one I thought, “This is the farthest that anyone has ever run in the history of mankind. Surely bodies are not meant for this kind of punishment. Why must I be punished so?” And in the straightaway: “My legs! They burn! My lungs! GRAAACKKKK!” And around turn two: “CAN’T. GO. ON. OH. SWEET. DEATH.” And in the final straightaway, there was nothing but blackness and the faint whisper of “Rosebuuuuddd….” I threw myself on the ground with great theatrics after I finished and immediately became fodder for the “DON’T LET ME EVER CATCH ANYONE STOPPING AND LYING DOWN LIKE THAT AFTER A RACE” speech barked out sternly and at high volume by Coach Megaphone. I tried to comfort myself after this public disgrace with the thought that at least I had survived the first ten minutes of practice. I might have to be carried off a stretcher once the actual exercises began, but at least I hadn’t wimped out during warm ups. I mean, geez. And then Coach Megaphone lifted his fearsome bullhorn and bellowed “ALRIGHT, NOW HURRY UP AND FINISH UP THE REST OF THAT EASY MILE SO WE CAN GET STARTED. AND BY ‘EASY’, I DON’T MEAN GRANDMA-STYLE LIKE YOU RAN THAT FIRST HALF! LET’S MOVE!”
That’s when I realized track and I were going to have a decidedly short-lived relationship.
I think that right now I might be in the worst shape of my thirty-one (and 3/4) years of life. And now that you see what some of those thirty-one years included, you can see how high THAT bar is set. I’m not sure why I’ve let it get to this point – because I have two kids? That’s not going to change any time soon. It’s hot? I can feel Jillian Michaels’ horsey-faced stare from the front of her ass-kicking DVD all the way upstairs in my sister’s room, discrediting THAT as an excuse. (Also, my sister, who has the DVD because she’s actually been using it: in the best shape of her life. Call me crazy, but I have a hunch that there might be a connection there.) I’m looking for a job and therefore feeling low in the self-confidence and motivation departments? True, but also I hear wild tales about these tiny mythical creatures called “Endorphins” that flood your body after exercise and, you know, HELP WITH THAT. I have no time? Well, I just wrote this drivel, which took as much time as doing the 30-Day Shred three times in a row. So. Then. Well. Um. Yeah, that’s all I got.
I don’t have a magical solution for how to propel myself into better habits. But it does seem like putting it out there in black and white is some sort of a start. I’m tired of wasting so many minutes of my day feeling uncomfortable in my clothes and trying to figure out why I’m in such a bad mood as a result. I just have so many other things I could be doing instead. Like getting a job. Or practicing my loogie hocking. I hear with enough lift you can make it to the grass, clearing the track altogether.