The Fitness Misfit: Running, Vol. 1.2

::sigh::

I hate running.

No. No. I hate running.

Like, I really, really, reeeeaaaalllly hate running.

So…why do you do it?

::sigh:: F*ck if I know.

LOL! Nah j/k.

I want to be an awesome runner. I want to be like the girls you see zooming past you on the sidewalk in Center City. Or like those coooooool weekend warriors that tear up the park trails.

That is what I would like to become.

Not to mention I want to be fit like them. In their fancy running pants, with Nike+ thingerjiggers and whatchamacallits.

Yea, I want that.

Buuuuuuuuut…I’m not ’bout that life.

You know why?

Because I hate running.

You know what? I don’t even have a legitimate reason to not like running. I mean, I don’t have health issues (my being ::ahem:: “rounder” than others doesn’t count) – my knees, ankles and back are perfectly fine.

I even love all the awesome perks that comes with running. I love all the amazing space agey technology that goes into the shoes and gadgets. I love that the outfits that some people wear make them look like technicolor in motion. I love the fun running tips NPR and Runners World Magazine offer.

It all seems so healthy and lively. And that’s exactly what I want.

Healthy and lively.

So what’s your probla (fast forward to 1:58 for relevance, or watch the whole thing because the video is hilarious, though not the underlying political and social issue behind it; just so we’re clear)?

Good question. It all comes down to the fact that…

I just hate running.

I mean, I physically hate the act of putting one foot in front of the other, quickly and consecutively.

It pains me.

Remember those phantom pains from my last “Fitness Misfit” post? Yea, they’re back, but this time with muthafuckin vengeance!

And now, all of a sudden, my shoulder is getting into the act.

My shoulder!?!

Really? Like…really!?

C’mon son.

What should already be glaringly obvious is the fact that I am lazy. Somewhere between now and my last “fitness” post my lazy has SIGNIFICANTLY increased! Like it’s kind of outrageous, sickening and disheartening all at the same time. I literally fell off of going to the gym. And my clean eating meal plan…

::sigh:: We’re not even going to talk about it.

Let’s just say there are days where the guilt is overpowering.

Catholics…

I feel your pain.

I hate running.

Running!

Well, actually, what I do…sheesh…is a poor excuse, example, display (insert whatever you deem appropriate) for running.

Oh, wait!

Allow me to clarify. Per my little brother, I don’t run. I jog…at best.

*Speechless*

…little bastard…

I love my little brother, to infinity and beyond,…but, straight up, my parents are about to come up one kid short!

Straight. Up.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, no, no I DID NOT as him for his opinion!

NO!

He’s just a whole little jerk.

Whatever. Anyway, point is, I’m not running, per se…

I’m on that couch to 5K plan. So it’s a mix of walking and running intervals.

So 3 times a week, with two of my good friends, I go “running”.

Let me be perfectly clear, if it weren’t for my friends, Alisa and Vanessa, holding me accountable, then I would have long given up on “running”… again. –> Pray for them. They need it.

Yes. Yes, friends, I said again.

It all started back in January (cue the blurry dream/memory sequence), when it was freakishly warm, I started the running program. At that point I had been going to the gym 4-5 time a week for 3 months. I just wanted to add something else to the mix.

So I chose running. Ironically, I could have chosen cycling for relatively the same cost.

Before I actually embarked on my first run, I searched the interwebz for running tips. I swear I read EVERYTHING (read: whatever popped up on the first results page on Google) pertaining to beginner runners.

I even went so far as to digitally subscribed to Runners World Magazine via Flipbook on my iPad.

I was SO serious!

I looked up what type of shoes would be appropriate for my feet (I’m severely flat-footed, which means I’m prone to over pronate – i.e. my ankles will tend to roll inward more than  people who have neutral or under pronation).

I found a real running store, I mean, no diss to Dick’s. The store was run by some “earthy-crunchy*” dude, all out of the way in the sticks somewhere (Eh…not really. The place was like 20mins away from my house). –> This classic Jerzadelphia syndrome. We think everything, and I do mean EVERYTHING, is 20mins away from our homes. I don’t know why we think that.

I finally got the nerve, and money, to go to the running store. Upon arrival I did sit in the car for about 10mins trying to figure out if I really wanted, or was going, to start running.

Like really? Aren’t there other sports you could take up?

UGH! I REALLY HATE RUNNING!!! –> Shut up and get out of the car, dammit!

So, I went inside and immediately felt out of place. All the shoes, brands that I’d never heard of, were displayed from the floor to ceiling. Fancy watches, heat monitors, GPSs and polarized sunglasses were locked in glass display cases.

Anti-chaffing creams, powders and ointments were neatly stacked on various shelves grouped by brand. All the clothes followed an 80s motif: All spandex! All neon colors! All made of “moisture wicking” fabric and was labeled and described as “dri” something or other.

I was shocked, dazed and confused.

I’m pretty sure I looked like this:

Clearly…I wasn’t prepared enough for this. Maybe I should go home and research some more?

Anti-chaffing!?!

Seriously, aside from your thighs and boobs (for the ladies… and some dudes  ::ahem::), where else do you put this stuff?

STOP!!!

NO!!!

I. DON’T. CARE! Lalalalalalalalalalaaaaaa, ICAN’THEARYOUUUUUUUU, laaaaalalalalalalalalalalaaaaaaa!!!!

Just…just keep it to yourself. My 7 readers and I would greatly appreciate it.

Thanks in advance.

Any who, judging from the barely suppressed smirk on his face, the clerk smelled the fear on me.

::sigh::

Not to mention the dumbfounded look on my face and the way I turned into a bull in a china shop as I tried quickly back track out of the store and almost took the fancy dri-sock display thingy out, was enough to give my feelings away, too!

I was kind of freaking out.

What was doing in a running store?

No, seriously.

I stated, in front of my MBA marketing class, in regards to my CUSTOM NIKE RUNNING SHOES, that, “You won’t catch me running.”

HA! It’s a double entré!

You get it?!

You know because I have running shoes, but I hate running and I don’t run and I’m like, “You won’t catch me…”

No?

Oh. Ok.

Well…my class thought it was funny.

More to the point, I didn’t, don’t, see myself in running. And I don’t mean myself as in that figurative “black girl/person participating in a ‘seemingly’ white sport” kind of way. I mean I didn’t, don’t, see myself putting feet to ground, quickly and calling said spirited effort “running”.

I let that rattle around as the clerk helped put the sock display upright and started to introduce himself. –> Note to self: Die a 1,000 tiny embarrassed deaths inside…

“Anything, particular, you’re looking for?” He asked.

“Uuh. Errrm…shoes. Of the running persuasion.”

He laughed then ushered me into the shoe “showroom.”

Yikes!!! I didn’t research brands!!

Curses. *Mojo Jojo voice*

He ran through a questionnaire. Asked if, when I ran, I experienced any discomfort (I assumed he wasn’t talking about the humiliation discomfort, and was asking more about the annoying shin splint discomfort).

Listen, I don’t want you all to get the wrong idea about me. I don’t have low self-esteem. I have reality-esteem. I know I look like this when I run:

I’m not fooling myself, or anyone else. That lady that quickly ushered her small children inside when I came half dying past their house, was well within her right to do so. I’m sure I’ll be receiving a psych bill from her in a few years.

Irreversible damage has been done to those poor kids’ developing psyches.

Whatever.

The guy checked off a few boxes and then disappeared into the stockroom. He came back with 4 boxes and told me to take the shoes for a spin…outside.

Wait. What?

You want me to wear them, try them even, out…side…?

Liiiiiike…in the elements outside, outside?

Nah, bruh! I’ll just jog it out in here. On the carpet.

*Side eye* <– You can tell I have no clue WTH I’m doing running. Apparently trying the shoes outside is par for the runner course. #oops.

I tried out all of the shoes and compared one to the other in respect to weight, stability and comfort; independent of cost.

I chose the Saucony Glide 5s.

I paid and was on my way with my new $100 real running shoes! 

Yea…I bought those shoes in the beginning of December. They sat in a corner, in the bag and box, for a month. I thought about returning them, TWICE,  but I didn’t.

One faithful 60 degree January day, I went out for week 1, day 1 run, and finally put those comfy, fancy Glide 5s to work.

The 5K program requires you to warm up for 5 mins. A brisk walk is suggested. I began my walk and, just like clockwork, the phantom pains started up.

I was ready to turnaround. I knew I had 4 mins and 23 secs before I was gonna die.

I totally felt it.–> It was like that Justin Timberlake movie.

Trying to ignore the paranoia, and jamming to “Super Bass,” I heard a lovely British voice interject itself into the song and say, “Start your first run now.”

A mini, paralyzing moment of panic and fear stopped my feet.

#ShitJustGotReal

Like really real.

Like super, extra, REAL!

I took a deep breath and went.

One foot, in front of the other.

Quickly and repeatedly.

Sooo…this is running, huh?

Hm.

It wasn’t so bad for the first minute run.

Wasn’t so bad for the second minute run.

The third run got a bit dicey, but I powered through it.

The fourth run…

Yea…

It all just went to hell from there.

What [GASP]!!

The [GASP]!!

HELL [GASP]!!?!?!

I swear, I swear on everything I love (you know Pilot G2 pens, Apple products, Starbucks and AWESOME music), I saw spots, stars, horseshoes, clovers and blue moons.

Totally thought I was gonna pass out and never wake up. And if I did wake up, it would be to some strange group of little kids standing around me, poking me with a stick asking, “Is it dead?”

No. No it’s not dead.

But its ego has been horribly bruised, and its spirit is well on its way to being broken.

Permanently.

F*CK THIS!!!

Running just isn’t for me.

Nope, just not for me. And the program must have known that too, because it told me to turn back because I’d ONLY reached the halfway point.

THE HALFWAY POINT!??!?!?!?

THAT’S IT!?! Aww, WTF!?

FML!!!

You know what I think? I don’t think running is for regular people. No. I think running is for girls named “Becky” or “Ashley”, who have bouncy ponytails, Lib-Arts degrees, and not regular Lib-Arts degrees, or even useful ones, but 15th century art through dead European languages degrees. –>(It probably exists at some college or university in Utah or something). Girls that wear neon pink running shorts, and are active sorors of and community organizers for Gamma Epsilon Theta Rho Inc. Girls who have boyfriends named “Jack” or “Chad”, who also run, drive hybrids, and do not eat meat (That’s right, kids, not even fish). –> I sound like the ultimate hater, don’t I?

I think running IS NOT for girls named ME who after running 4 mins, intermixed with walking, almost die. Girls who can’t take 3 steps without a side stitch developing. Who, in spite of reading a gagillion articles and asking a bunch of people (read: maybe like 3) about breathing techniques, still feels like their lungs are going to explode. Girls who self identify as “poultrytarians” (it’s a life decision). Girls who want to drive cars that go a gazillion miles per hour and takes out old people. –> Shout-out to my boss.

Oh, and I’M SINGLE!…let’s not even talk about it.

Let’s just not, because I’m sure my extremely violent and visceral response to gender roles is what’s hampering my “progress.”

Bottom  line: I f*cking hate running.

I hate the sweat.

I hate how bad I am at it.

I hate the huffing, puffing and almost falling the hell out part, too.

No, seriously, F*CK running.

Buuuuuut, on the other hand, I would like to get my $100 worth out of those damned shoes.

Listen, I totally admire people who run. I’m jealous even (if that wasn’t already painfully obvious).

I would love to just get out into nature and run. To get a taste of that “runner’s high” that all the magazines talk about. Just once I would like to get that.

I think that if I truly experienced that particular brand of Kool-aid those folks have been drinking, then I’d be hooked. I’d totally be tricking my friends into running with me and forcing them to push themselves beyond their personal limits.

I’d, also, be on my way to being fit as shit.

But that’s not my current reality.

No.

I hate running, but I’m still trying to stick it out because I hate the idea of being a quitter more. It really messes with my soul to know that I didn’t complete something. And not only did I not complete it, but I couldn’t/didn’t even do whatever activity it is well to begin with.

It messes with me. Failure, or the implication of failure, is the stuff my nightmares are made of.

I know. I should seek professional help. Ehh…I’m good. I’mma just pray about it, then let go and let God.

Ya know!? –> Someone please call ‘bullshit’ on me. There is no way in hell my Type-A, control freak self is just gonna “let go and let God.”

FOH!

I just can’t do it.

LOL yikes! I probably just offended at least 4 people by saying that. At least 4; maybe even 5.

My bad…I guess. –> I’m a “boot-strapper” through and through. I know, “go by faith, not by sight.” I know. I already know. I just can’t bring myself to do that…but that’s for another post.

I suppose, until I figure something else out, I’ll be suffering through these damned “runs” in an attempt to train for an upcoming 5K, in September.

But I really don’t want to.

Ugh…someone save me.

Speak your mind….

*Note: Earthy-crunchy: People who can be considered, described, or self-identify as hippies, tree-huggers, and (or) eco-terrorists. They usually can be picked out by their Birkenstocks, tie-dye shirts, unkempt dreads, and reusable Whole Foods/Trader Joe’s shopping bags.

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About themeanblackgirl

My name says it all!
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