Forced to Run

I may have stated before that I decided to start running. Which makes me sound so motivated, so inspired. Truth is, running was a last resort. Still wearing the occasional maternity wear, it became obvious that I had to start losing some weight. After considering a local Crossfit gym (another mom recommended it but it occurs to me that she may be insane) and the exercise classes I was going to before Christmas, the reality is that I am broke and could really use that extra money for lattes and Timbits, errr I mean wheat grass and artichokes…

With fitness classes out, I consider ramping up my Wii Active workouts. But try that in a tiny living room with two kids, a dog and a hubby cheering “Yah, shake that booty!”

So I head outside and, inspired by beer chugging athletes, decide skeleton is my thing. Only to be informed that the playground slide is not, in fact, a sliding track. Not for grown-ups at any rate.

No, I do not exactly choose running. It’s my default.

Regardless, I am ready to give it a go. I fetch my deprived running shoes out of the depths of the hall closet then raid my own closet for workout clothes. The only pants I can find are maternity ones that I have to roll over a few times to fit the waist but fit just fine in the rear and thighs. My first goal? To literally run my pants off.

I find a sports bra too and while it is not maternity, I must have bought it in the first month of Kaya’s life because it is big. Really big. Think Matt Roloff wearing Shaq’s shoes. Not a lot of support there. And trust me folks, little people need support too. Especially if they nursed two kids.

Lastly, I pull on a workout top. Here I have the opposite problem. It must have covered all required body parts at some point in my life. But not today. Today it reaches my post-baby muffin top and stops. Like it’s scared to go any further or something. Rolls and stretch marks may be disheartening, but not scary. Come on shirt, S-T-R-E-T-C-H.

On my way out the door I grab Bal’s stop watch and a down vest as it looks chilly out there. Passing a car window, I catch a glimpse of myself, the runner, and a sole thought occurs to me. ‘To be a runner do I have to look like a runner?’ Because mostly I look like Kate Gosselin in the first year of her ‘plus eight’. If I’m going to look like Kate, could it not be Kate Dancing With the Stars*?

Now, not 30 seconds into my first run, I consider giving up on this running craziness. Maybe I could try curling. Yes, don’t they like pay you to curl?

‘Learn to Curl! Free Beer Coupons Provided!’

Yes, curling I can do. Until I remember all those Olympic curlers. All those hot, fit Olympic curlers. Ah well, I hate sweeping anyways.

Running it is. There, I made it the first minute. Run one minute, walk two minutes 12 times. I can do this! Especially after I go shopping for gear! And there goes the free…

*Now that I have seen Kate on DWTS, I take that back. I take that waaaay back!

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