Running is stupid.

This is not a “Lookit me! I’m exercising! I’m super happy! I’m gonna be super skinny in 2.4 weeks! ZOH MAH GAH I’m so encouraged to change my life!” post.

Nope. Running is stupid.

Exercising is stupid.

But I did it for serious this morning. Not 1/2-assed. Like, for serious, serious sweating.

If I had checked my pulse at the height of my near-death exercise routine at minute 14, it would have been somewhere between 150 and 300 or something.

I mentioned last week that I bought the Couch to 5K app for my iPhone. Today, I used it.

I woke up early. *gasp*
I put on tennis shoes WITH socks. *double gasp*
I started the app. *triple gasp*
I stretched. *NAILED IT*
I.
WAS
RUN-NING.

*THUD*

The first two cycles of running were pretty easy. Having not truly exercised or run for the last 15 years of my life, I was pretty durn proud of myself for not falling over and dying a slow heart-attack death on my neighbor’s sidewalk. (“That poor fat girl was just trying to lose some of that Taco Bell 4-year-old baby weight. Such a pretty face wasted on the sidewalk.“)

Then came the start of the 3rd cycle of running NON-STOP for SIXTY WHOLE SECONDS. And dudes. It was hard.

Like, super duper hard.

I had no idea my size 7-1/2 feet weighed so much. Like running with boulders at then end of my chubby legs. Heavy.

Stupid.

Hard.

Then my panties started falling down. Not my shorts. My undieroos inside my shorts.

Do you know what a fat girl looks like jogging/walking briskly while pulling her skivvies up from the outside of her shorts with one ear bud falling out of her ear and glasses sliding down her nose?

If you’d been in my neighborhood at 7:45 this morning, you could have videoed it for YouPorn.

And who knew my ARMS would hurt after this “Run, Fat Girl, Run Experiment”?

And my foot is dead. I’m pretty sure I have plantar fascitis or that Voodoo Priestess’ spell on me from 1995 is finally working and I’ll never be able to walk the streets of New Orleans again. Either way, it hurts like yeah.

And I’m sore.

And tomorrow’s soreness will be worse.

And I DESERVED THE MARGARITA I DRANK FOR DINNER TONIGHT.

But I’ll do it again.

I get a rest tomorrow to slap on at least 9 Ben-Gay* patches all over my body.
Related: Do you think they stick on hair? There are places down there I’m pretty sure will be hurty and will need the sweet cool relief of Mr. Gay and I’m not into acting like a Brazilian ifyouknowwhatimean.

This deal of 30 minutes of work for ever 48 hours is pretty sweet.

To summarize:
* Running is dumb, but being fat is dumber.
* I’m gonna get me a preggo belly band to keep my big ole belly up and strapped down and unjiggly.
* I promise NOT to bore you with my efforts to be svelt and a MILF by the end of the summer.
* You WILL want to feel me up.

Or I’ll fail miserably after week 2 and you’ll be non the wiser.

______________________________

*Is there a better name for a product than “Ben-Gay”?

I think not.

Everyone and their brother has a bucket “list of shit they want to do before they die” list. I’ve never made one, and I’m not starting one now. you’re welcome Why should I? It’s not like I’m ever going to accomplish all of the actions on the list, and if I don’t complete them all before I die, I’ll walk up to the pearly gates a failure. And from what I hear, God doesn’t like failures.

So really what I’ve done is kind of kept a running list in my head of stuff I want to have happen to me. You know, not really planned, just, if it happened, that’d be awesome.

In no particular order, and because I loves me a list, I present the first entry into the “It’d be awesome if this actually happened, but God doesn’t like failures, so I’m not going to make it a ‘must do’” Unlist:

Have Dwight Howard pick me up.

It could happen, you know, with us both living in Orlando and all.

I’m not a small girl. duh As a woman, I kind of want that feeling of being picked up off the ground. I have a small husband. He weighs less than I did 10 years ago. He’s short, but he’s taller than me. I’m not gonna get dirty here, but *ahem* this girl ain’t complainin that everything is small. *ahem*

Back to Dwight “DAAAAMN THOSE SHOULDERS” Howard. Look at this man. Look at those shoulders.

DAAAAMN. They were built for picking me up and, well, whatever he wanted hold me like a baby.

I think he would like that.