I’ve spent the past twenty years wishing I was one of those perky, pony-tailed, runner-chicks I see on the side of the road. You know the ones that your steering wheel tugs towards as you pass and you have to fight yourself not to flatten their tiny sweats-clad ass with your bumper? Yah, those chicks.
Just seeing them bouncing along like it doesn’t hurt every fiber of their being, makes me wonder if we are made of the same materials. Cause when I try that … it hurts. Everywhere. Yet they always look like they have never felt better. I’m confused. There must be some secrets I’m not privy to.
When I go to run, my head begins to sweat immediately. My pony tailer starts to slide out and my curls begin to fuzz around my ears. My heartbeat quickens, the pressure in my side builds and my mouth feels like the Sahara in July.
My elastic waist creeps down below my belly chub. My underwear goes where it shouldn’t and I sweat in…uncomfortable places.
Three toes on my right foot go numb.
My formerly sleek ponytail then slides half-way out and the hair that was once neatly ensconced now resembles cotton candy in a wind storm.
And THEN I close the door of the truck and we start running.
My psychotic runner friend who got me started is one of those ‘fat to fit’ gals so I can’t even claim she doesn’t know what it’s like to be me. She’d meet me at the designated spot in town, run me for two hours along the sidewalk…in public for gosh sakes…and then I’d crawl back to the truck with her bouncing along beside me.
Afterwards we’d go to Dairy Queen and I’d get a grilled chicken sandwich while she engulfed half the menu.
“You know why you get just that sandwich and I get this large Blizzard?” she’d say.
“Because you want me to kill you with my bare hands?” I’d guess.
“Nope, it’s because I ran ten miles before you got there.”
Hate.
So the running thing didn’t last long and every once in a while I primp myself out to ultimate cuteness, throw on my two hundred dollar sneakers that still have all their tread, and try it again. Only to fail ultimately and go back to my slovenly ways.
But that’s okay. Because where I come from, runners, skiiers, bikers, hikers and even stroller pushing walkers…are regularly eaten by bears. I don’t sit because I’m lazy.
I sit…to save lives.
