You may be wondering how I’m doing with that whole “lose ten pounds” challenge.
Welllll…… Not great.
I’ve always thought of myself as a physically fit person. Not a skinny person. I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly skinny. Thin maybe once for a week or two, but definitely fit. I’m fairly active, if by active I mean I get an average of an hour or two of exercise a week. When I was in high school, I used to get an average of an hour or two of exercise a day and I was never skinny, so maybe skinny isn’t a realistic goal for me.
Don’t get me wrong – I love my body most of the time. I love that I’m curvy and that I don’t have sharp hip bones and that I have a large perky ass that you can (scientifically proven!) rest a beer can on, but yeah, I could stand to lose 10 (okay, 15) pounds.
However, I’ve been dotting the i’s and crossing all the t’s and that goddamn scale will not budge.
Have I upped my exercise? For the past month, I’ve been taken four power yoga or barre classes a week.
Is my diet healthy? Brussel sprouts, arugula, eggs, quinoa, barely any bread, no sweets. Yes, I’ve had a few indulgences, but nothing that should break the bank.
So clearly, I need to do something different. I do yoga all the time. Maybe my body is bored, I thought. Maybe I need to do something radical.
That’s how this whole running debacle happened.
Okay, well first I went and bought a cute new pair of shoes, and then the running debacle happened.
I’ve been in previous situations where I’ve run about 3 miles and my legs wanted to murder me the next day, so I figured I’d start small. I plotted out a mile long route around my neighbourhood, figured I’d be back in ten minutes or so, and went out. One mile. No problem, right?
It took about a block for me to want to die. One block. Singular. One huffing, puffing, wheezing, cramping block. Lungs burning, nostrils snorting, pretend-I-have-a-rock-in-my-shoe-so-that-other-runner-doesn’t-judge-me dying. One I could still turn around and pretend this never happened block. And no, I wasn’t sprinting. I was jogging so slow a mailtruck could have kept pace with me mid-route.
WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN TO ME?
I can do a power yoga class no problem, and no, not that nancy-pants stretchy yoga, but the 90 degrees, open-a-can-of-whoop-on-your-ass kind. I can carry a miniature fridge up 3 flights of stairs.
I. Am. Not. Out. Of. Shape. I’m fit, aren’t I?
Except that I can’t run a mile. I can barely jog-walk 37 steps.
I guess that means this is the new project I’ve been looking for.
I, Cassandra, Vow to run/walk/crawl everyday until I can comfortably run a mile.
Because seriously, girl, that panting thing is not cute.