...and other medieval forms of torture.
I ran Friday.
For my friends in Smyrna who know me best, I'm giving you a minute to pick yourselves up off the floor, get a tissue to dry the laughing tears from your eyes, and let your breathing return to normal before you start reading again. Better? Okay. Let's continue.
I ran Friday.
Okay, Smyrna girls. That's enough laughing. Pull yourselves together now. There are other people trying to read this.
So I ran. I know I've always said that there's no way I'd run unless there was a big dog chasing me. Well, this big dog is named Kathleen and I was chasing her, trying to keep up. See, I was foolish enough to mention that I'd reached a plateau in the Biggest Loser contest at work. For the past four weeks, I've only lost half a pound a week. I've only been dieting and not exercising because I've been so busy. Kathleen was trying to organize a group of teachers to participate in a "Fun Run" after school several days a week. I commented that there was nothing at all "fun" about running. She encouraged me to give it a try before I passed judgment. I called her a crazy fool, and it went downhill from there.
Long story short, she said that the more people we got to participate, the more likely each of us would be to find a running partner on her own level--someone to match pace with us and keep us company while the others sped off toward the Boston marathon. Since I'm one of the oldest teachers on our faculty, I knew this would not be the case for me. The assisted living facility is a little further down the street--that's the only place I'd find a running buddy. But, I brought some workout clothes to school on Friday and prayed for rain all day. Naturally, the rain didn't come until later, ruining my kids' Trunk or Treat, but not early enough to ruin my run.
I bravely set out with the skinny, 20-something teachers and immediately realized my mistake: I'd forgotten a sports bra. The main reason I hate to run is because of the bouncing. Not that I have much to bounce, but it's damned uncomfortable anyway. I hung back and tried to set a comfortable pace. I realized at once that I'd found my running budding: my teaching partner's nine-year-old daughter who was panting, whining, and asking if we could stop now. I fit right in with my gasping, moaning, and begging. We were soul mates.
At least until we completed the first loop around the neighborhood and the girl's mom took pity on her and allowed her to stop there. Not so with me. Those young, thin beeyotches made me keep going, although they did slow down when I reminded them that we'd had a class party about an hour before and, unless they wanted to see some of the "Swamp Water" punch I'd drunk making a return trip, they'd better slow the frick down. They walked a little while to let the punch settle in my stomach, then took off running again. I politely told them all to F-off while dragging behind them, trying not to hurl in the neighbor's yards. I have students who live on those streets, so I didn't want it to get back to school on Monday that Mrs. Brewer blew Halloween Party chunks in their front yard.
Cut to the chase (which is what I did--chase the other teachers) all the way back to the school. I mapped the distance we ran on mapmyrun.com: 2.87 miles. I survived, but just barely. The other teachers all congratulated me on not fainting, stroking out, or barfing in the bushes, and I sweetly told them all to F-off again. No really, they told me I did a great job of keeping up with them, especially considering that I have no running experience whatsoever, other than being old enough to have powered my first car with my feet, Flintstone-style. They all told me not to give up, that it'll get easier each time I run, especially if I don't drink a gallon of Swamp Juice and eat a plate of M&Ms and Pigs in a Blanket right beforehand.
Oh, did I fail to mention the candy and Blanketed Piggies? Yeah, that's the real reason I ran. So I could eat a little junk food at the Fall Party. I tell you, the sacrifices I make for nitrates and sugar.
I might try running again--when those yummy piggies fly.