Let me start this post with a simple question: Who the hell brought caramel flavored chocolate covered cashews into my home? There’s a mutineer, and I will have his head.
As promised, I started my run program today. When I started blogging 2 years ago, I could give up anything: Chocolate, cheese, bread, booze, you name it as long as I could sit in my chair and check my blog stats every 3 minutes. I would not give up my sedentary lifestyle. Now, I’m going to try to kick it up a notch. I just want you to know that in real life, I would never say, “kick it up a notch.” If you said it, I would stop listening to you, because I think it sounds stupid. But right now, I think it’s funny. Yesterday I called my cousin Eric to ask if he wanted to do this half marathon too. Somehow, when he said the longest he’d ever run was 7 miles, I told him it was “time to kick it up a notch.” I sounded possessed, I think. Now I can’t stop saying it in “possessed by a trainer” voice. “C’mon People, lets’ KICK IT UP A NOTCH.” See? Possessed, I tell you.
Yeah, so, today I kicked it up a notch, which, as we already know, means I stood and moved forward for 30 consecutive minutes. I am following the C25K program (or “Couch to five kilometers” for those who still like words). Here’s what I like about the program: you ease into a doable exercise thing. Sixty seconds of jogging here, 90 seconds of walking there, before you know it, you’re practically Uta Pippig, but without the blood and poop (Boston Marathon 1996 reference. God I feel old). What I don’t like: getting out of bed on a non-work day before 8 am to go out and run. And by “run” I mean make funny little joggy motions with my legs while wearing new running shoes and Lycra tights. I’m out there on the badly paved, dangerously canted road, running past neighbors I don’t know, trying to look like I’m not dying, because I have no ID on me. Each little 60 or 90 second increment becomes it’s own little mind game.
Me running with 20 seconds left: Oh my God! 20 more seconds?? Fuck, I’m going to die.
Me running with 5 seconds left: Oh thank God! Only 5 more seconds! Fuck, I’m going to die.
Me walking with 20 seconds left: Oh thank God! 20 more seconds! Fuck, I’m going to die.
Me walking with 5 seconds left: Oh my God! Only 5 more seconds?? Fuck, I’m going to die.
I had basically rolled out of bed, snarfed down my coffee, avoided my kids, and out the door I went (now I have George Thorogood in my brain). No breakfast, no water, just winging it. Also, I have a cough. And it was kind of cool from minutes 7 to 14 maybe. Wintery day, up with the early birds feeling all superior ‘n shit. At some point I had to spit, and that was just embarrassing, because I didn’t really get a clean trajectory. Not good. Finally as I was in the last eight minutes or so, I was starting to feel like I’d get through, but then the chorus of “Whipping Post” by the Allman Brothers started going through my head. Probably not the best choice for the playlist.
There are people who don’t believe that I am as positively non-athletic as I am. That’s because I am a total poseur. I have a bunch of gear, and I really do like watching almost all sports in a general girly way, and I have
slept with hung out around athletic types (I even married one eventually!). I’ve ridden my bike around Lake Tahoe and backpacked all over the place. I used to be a snowboarder too. Ten years ago, I vowed to have a daily exercise habit by the time I was 35. Did that! And I might still be a little active if it weren’t for those meddling kids. They’re ruinous. But they should have a mom who is healthy. I’m going to see if I can’t get myself into the shit hot shape I was in for 15 minutes 10 years ago. If not for myself, then for the children.
Isn’t this totally inspirational?