Guys… I used to be a bad ass but now I can hardly walk in public without my leg giving out on me. It kind of looks like I’ve randomly decided to bust a move Carlton style when in reality I’m just trying not to bust a face.
I’m not a very vain person, but I must say that among all of my flaws I’ve always loved my legs. I’ve always had naturally muscular legs that look toned no matter what the state my muffin top was. And I was fast, I could move stealthily no matter what my weight was.
Needless to say… things have changed.
(Don’t look at my leg hair… that’s rude.)
I want to be a haus again. I used to be ashamed of my muscles, and now I can’t wait to feel them stretch and flex. I can’t wait to feel powerful again. I can’t wait until I feel as physically capable as I used to feel.
The other day a few of the kids in my hall at school were trying to jump up and touch an exit sign that was hanging from the ceiling. Upon witnessing this I told them to stop it… and then promptly tried to do it myself.
I barely got off the ground.
The kids were nice enough to congratulate me on my effort and not point out the fact that I looked like a baby penguin throwing a fit.
I’m making small strides. I’ve finally been able to work out consistently even if the workouts I’m capable of doing are really lame. One early morning I found myself on a treadmill next to an acquaintance that I hadn’t seen in a long time. She ran effortlessly beside me not even noticing me as I wobbled along side her.
It was four thirty on a Tuesday morning. I was wearing the t-shirt I went to bed in and she was wearing a cute workout outfit meant to be athletically cute. (Damn her.) At first I didn’t notice that she was beside me because I was sleep walking trying to convince myself that working out at such and ungodly hour would later make me feel good. Then I glanced over and recognized her.
I’m not really much of a social butterfly when it comes to working out. I kind of just want to do my thing and then sneak out of the gym unnoticed, but I felt rude not saying anything to her.
Finally, I tapped on her shoulder and gave her a quick wave hello.
We exchanged a few niceties and I awkwardly kept trying to put my headphones back on even though she wasn’t quite done asking me questions. She was really friendly, but I couldn’t help but feel self-conscious due to the fact that I looked like an albino without mascara and she looked like freakin Bambi with her black eye lashes batting in my direction. I tried to simultaneously focus on what she was saying to me and the belt moving beneath my feet, so I didn’t end up doing one of my accidental Carlton moves.
The competitor in me couldn’t stand the fact that she was having a full conversation with me while she ran. I couldn’t stand being lapped by her (even though she couldn’t technically lap me due to the fact that we were on treadmills). Plus, I’m pretty sure this woman runs 50 mile races every other weekend and could probably kick my ass on a good day, but this didn’t stop me from wanting to provide an explanation for why I wasn’t as awesomely fit as her.
As the conversation finally ebbed I blurted out, “I had surgery.”
She looked at me.
“That’s why I can’t run.”
“Yeah, it was pretty intense.” And that’s why I’m fatter than I was the last time I saw you. Even though that shouldn’t entirely take the blame because in reality I was fat before I had surgery and I kind of hate how your boobs stay still while you run while mine shimmy uncontrollably under my oversized pajama shirt despite the efforts of my too small sports bra. Anyway, I used to be a bad ass and still totally could be even though technically I’m not. Thought you should know… you know in case you were wondering why I can hardly walk beside you.
“Oh, well good luck with that.”
The conversation ended shortly after. My time on the treadmill was up so I stopped the belt, gingerly stepped off the machine and hobbled out the door wondering what the hell is wrong with me.