The highs of running:
The (insert various family member name here) ticks me off and three miles later I’ve forgotten what sent me over the edge.
My ‘skinny’ jeans don’t require me to suck it in and camouflage with an oversized shirt.
I can google myself and see my name and results of my last race.
My butt doesn’t melt into my back. There is some definition.
Running gear can be added to the retail therapy rotation.
My left ankle and heel hurt like the dickens.
My right knee sings at the 2.41 mile.
I have to quit smoking. Um this is a fence one.
Fat Girl Ailments.
Just when my body seems to accept that this is the way it now is, my thighs decide to protest and rub themselves raw. Gotdangit! It’s hard enough to get my rear in gear, and with The Devil selling lemonade at half price (seven episodes of 90 plus weather and counting!) I don’t need anything that would make me not run. Couple that with Plantar Fishiatis and I’m not going anywhere fast.
Ain’t that a b***h?
I have made a kick ass playlist that motivates me to go that extra step. Looking at my progress on Nike+ I can see I’m more consistent and my pace is steady. Now I have a blank blank blister.
I put beeswax and some other home remedies on my leg and went out.
My favorite track has been over taken by a peewee football team so I go to Bonner in between the dinner hour for the coolness and the lack of people. As I huff to the end of my run, there is now a field of giggly teens who gawk and make one feel so self conscious. I do hate them.
However, I know that I’m making my strides and getting better each day. Fat girl ailments and all.
Created on the fly by Mrsrkfj