Am I allowed to brag? I feel as if I almost never talk of my child's obvious brilliance, which, admittedly, may be called into question once I divulge that the other day her career choice was thus - "I want to be an iceberg when I grow up. Oh, or a policeman." Alrighty then. Regardless, I'm not talking about that now. I'll leave that for some other time when I'm void of ideas for blog posts.
This time, it's about me - a blogger's favourite topic. Me, me, and me. As you know, I started running last summer and lost something like a pound. I don't believe in scales, so I'm thinking perhaps I lost about a stone (14lbs), but it may have been less than that. My trousers were all very loose, and on occasion, far too close to falling down around my ankles for comfort.
A few months ago, I thought that I should really be losing more weight for the time and effort I had been investing. I ran 5K three times a week, and I was monk-like in my adherence to healthy eating habits. I seemed to stall, which I understand is common, but it significantly affected my desire to keep running.
This, added to the inescapable depression, lead to my runs becoming more and more infrequent. I'm not a natural runner, which is to say that I am not, nor will I ever be, one of those people who grasps running in a great bear hug full of passion and admiration. I'm an athletic person, but that doesn't translate to a love of running. I do it because I have to, and as exercising goes, it's manageable. I am not clawing at the door each evening begging to be let out so I can become one with the sound of my running shoes hitting the pavement.
In November I stopped running for a week, and barring a random run or two, took a three week spontaneous hiatus. I then ran once more in the beginning of December, then gave up again. My Mom came for Christmas, barely acknowledged my weight loss, and also made reference to me borrowing her (much larger) trousers one laundry day. Up to that point, I would occasionally convince myself that I'd lost a noticeable amount of weight, but my Mom's casual approach to that put me off running completely. I know it makes no sense, as you'd think it would inspire me to run more, but this is not how my tiny, irrational mind works.
So, before I know it, it's February and I've not run for two months. I'm a born procrastinator and conflict avoider, so my approach to situations like these is to keep putting things off in the hopes they'll somehow resolve themselves via divine intervention. How that was to happen with running, I'm not sure. Most nights I told The Dude that the following evening was The One. I was going to get back on the horse, come what may. Each night, tiredness and television won out.
However, I reached a point today when I realised that I do kind of miss it. I don't miss gasping for breath or hawking huge phlegm conglomerations into the grass as I am running, but I do miss the high. I forced myself out the door at 7pm, braving the cold and wind, determined to keep trying to lose weight so my Mom no longer assumes her bigger trousers will fit me. My goal was to simply get out and do some distance - a mile and a half, two...no pressure. Well, guess who got out there and ran 5K with one of my best times ever? I'm well aware that some of you fit folks out there will scoff at my alleged accomplishment, but it's the small steps for some of us.
I hope this is me getting back into running properly, because bitch gotta pair of Louboutins coming to her this summer if she can manage a 10K before her visit to the States. I can't have laziness and indifference come between me and Loubs. Who's with me?*
*Er, I don't mean I'm going to buy you a pair as well. Though my husband does tend to buy his co-workers Lush products (don't ask), I doubt he'd stretch to a pair of Loubs for my internet friends. I'm just talking support for other exercisers or exercisers-to-be, which is surely just as good as a pair of high falootin' shoes, if not better. Right? Right?