I was doing so well. Stretching. Workouts. More stretching. Protein. 5k’s. Repeat.
Running had become more of an easy habit for me rather than a sloppy display of agony. I was actually cutting minutes off my race time. But about a month ago I did a 5k glow-run and I beat my personal best… again. That night I grew tired and decided to take a couple days off. Those days morphed into a week and my running shoes had eventually gone a month without seeing any action.
Meanwhile Oatmeal Creme Pies and McDonald’s sweet teas began to take their toll. I have started to see excess flabbage around the belly area as I look in the bathroom mirror while getting out of the shower.
I had my average weight in my head, but a few days ago I went to the doctor for a basic physical. Of course, I had to step on the scales.
To my everlasting regret, the nurse basically cussed me when she stated, “@%# pounds.”
“Uhhmm, are you sure?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yup, @%# pounds.”
I knew I must change before it is too late and I end up putting X’s beside my t-shirt size. I had nothing to do today and it was a perfect seventy-five degrees. Today was the day.
I slipped on my running shoes, did my stretches, set my running app, Pandora’d a workout station, and went for it.
I was Olympic. I was unstoppable. I barely made it to my neighbors yard before I was huffing and puffing.
I kept going though; however, I pity the people in cars who passed me and had to see me ungracefully trotting around, gasping for breath.
If I’m able to get out of bed in the morning, I’ll try it again tomorrow. Regardless, that @%# number has got to go.