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tales of something simple - excercise

i believe

Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

all types of chaos

i jogged 1.3 miles and now i want to beat a thin person

I don’t like to exercise.  No, let me rephrase.  I don’t like doing something when it is classified as exercise strictly for the point of losing weight and it done soley for that purpose (this also includes things like “being healthy,”"strengthening muscles,” and “taking care of the heart”).  I am a big freaking baby.  And yesterday I cried like one to my husband, begging him to kick my ass and harass me about getting into shape.  He of course, being the man he is, tried to reassure me that I’m great the way I am but if that’s what I need he will try and help.

So tonight I took the initiative to start a new routine.  I don’t do weights or crap like that unless I am in a gym so I went for a job.  I put on the clothes I don’t wear (the one’s the show the cinnamon rolls on my waist and the mangos on the tops of my legs) because I don’t feel comfortable with items so clingy.  For this activity I made the exception–if I don’t want to be doing this, it shouldn’t be pleasant for anyone else to watch either.  I told Brian to memorize what I was wearing in case I was kidnapped (I even noted the peach underwear) and drove about a half mile from my house (I’m not that lazy…my road is a steep hill with no sidewalks and streetlights so stop frowning) to a new construction neighborhood.  Long story short I hated every single second of it and couldn’t wait for it to be over.  I couldn’t find my earphones so I was ipod-less and alone with my thoughts.  Maybe a good time to think for some, but for me I only could reminisce about the times Rita and I would walk/run/jog/listen to me complain for miles around her neighborhood years ago.  She was my quasi-inspiration for pushing on through my jog tonight and she was a crappy inspiration at that.  These were my thoughts…

“Ahh I remember this feeling.  Rita would be encouraging me right now.  She would be running faster than me, subliminaly making me feel like an out of shape turd so I’ll pretend she’s here right now.  Keep going.  One foot in front of the other.  You can do it.  Rita does this all the time.  And she likes it.  Rita is in shape.  Rita is thin.  Rita is healthy.  Fuck Rita.  God damn Rita and her love for running and her skinny little ass.  I hate Rita.”

Sorry, Rita. I love you.

But I did it.  I made it back to my car–in a SPRINT no less and then felt the need to go back home with something to say about my journey so I drove the way I ran to calculate my pride for the day.  I sent my husband a text on my way home.

“1.3 miles bitches.”

Now I’d like to go eat a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s and talk some smack on skinny people.


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