Well, here I am. I’m only here because of Lucy, my dog. Since I’ve moved 3 hours away from home, I’m her only person, which means getting up at 6 a.m. to go for morning walks so she doesn’t piss on the carpet and rob me of my $400 pet deposit. Getting up at 6 a.m. everyday to do something physical does strange things to my body and my mind. I actually want to get up. I actually want to get outside. I feel guilty if I don’t, not only because Lucy doesn’t get a little exercise before I leave for what usually ends up being a 10-hour day, but also because I’m robbing my body of fresh air and cardio.
This week, I’ve noticed that these little morning walks make me feel like I need something more. I’ve been thinking about jogging because my legs have been itching for something more intense as the sun rises. I’m really good at excuses, though, and I usually can come up with 83 good reasons why I shouldn’t start running at that particular moment — my bangs might stick to my forehead, I’m not wearing the proper underwear, someone might see me, etc. Tonight, I had no desire to walk after dinner. I just wanted to sit, but those freakin’ beagle eyes kept staring at me like, “Come on, mom. It’s beautiful out! We both need it.” So I laced up and we went. As I stepped off my porch, I found myself running. RUNNING! That’s such a dirty word. RUNNING! But it feels so good when you say it! I. WAS. RUNNING. I didn’t run very far, only to the poopy trash bin behind the next complex. But I RAN! Lucy ran alongside me the whole time tripping over shit because she was staring up at me like, “MOM! What the fuck is going on with you?! This is great! This is exhilarating! We’re RUNNING!” I walked from the poopy trash can to the dumpster and then I ran to the end of the fence post! And then I kept running! And then I SPRINTED FOR MY FRONT DOOR! SPRINTED! I couldn’t fucking breathe and I’m still wheezing when I laugh, but I RAN. I. RAN.
And so it begins. I want to run MORE! I don’t want to wheeze for three hours after I run anymore, but, my god, do I want to RUN. Even if I’m only running 10 feet a day, I want to run. I want to come home and think to myself, “Holy shit, I just did that!”
I’ve always said that I would start running if only I could just get myself under 200 pounds. That’s bullshit. I’m just making excuses again. I’m at 220-something (I’ll officially weigh in tomorrow) and there’s really no better time than now. If I don’t start now, I’ll never not wheeze for three hours after I run, and Lucy will never look at me with that “Holy shit!” beagle expression on her face that makes it SO worth it.
Since I’ve moved here about 4 weeks ago, I’ve lost 10 pounds. I’m not exercising or anything other than the walking.. I’m just not eating shit anymore. I snack on fruit and pretzels. I eat a sandwich for lunch. Not a sandwich, granola bar, crackers, fruit snacks, and a soda. I drink a cup of coffee in the morning and that’s usually the only caffeine I have for the day, unless I treat myself to a diet Wild Cherry Pepsi because somedays deserve one.
I am SO ready to feel better about myself.