So I’m running now.
I mean, I’m running for reals. For exercise. Not because someone is chasing me with a butcher knife or I’m trying to get to the buffet before that old lady with the walker gets all the red jello.
Okay so technically I’m sprinting. Which I guess is a form of running, but I’m not like, running a marathon or anything. I’m running from the tree on the furthest side of my backyard to the furthest tree on the other side of my backyard. It’s probably 15 yards. But! I’m running there and back. Six times in a row.
I know. I’m pretty amazed myself.
This shit wasn’t my idea though. It was Captain Carl's. On Friday at 4pm he called me at work and was all “Hey, when you get home we’ll kick the soccer ball around for a few minutes and then run sprints and then go for a walk” and I was all “Gah?” and he was all “This is our new exercise program…3 times a week” and I was all “Ummm, okay?” and he was all “Excellent!” and I was all “Well, fuck.”
Yep, all his idea. His brilliant Friday night sprinting idea. My idea was to sit on the couch and watch 5 episodes of Ghost Hunters while eating microwave popcorn and twizzlers. My idea was way more awesome, I think.
So I get home and I’m all “I have a headache” and he was all “Nice try” and I was all “No I really do. In my vagina.” and he was all “Shut up and put your sports bra on and get outside”. So I stomped around my bathroom getting ready for as long as I possibly could because I so did not want to exercise but apparently he doesn’t love me enough to let me do nothing and get fatter. Big jerk.
So we’re in the backyard and mosquitoes are eating me alive and I’m all *kick kick kick* with the soccer ball and he’s all “quit kicking it up towards my face!” and I’m all “It’s called strategy” and he’s all “There is no strategy, we’re just warming up” and I’m all “Oh yeah? Your mom's warming up!” because I'm pretty much the queen of soccer insults.
Then he made me sprint.
A real lot.
So there I am. Running. When I start the first sprint, it’s not as hard as I thought it was going to be. Hey, I’m moving pretty fast…not bad for a fat lady. At the halfway mark, I realize something. I’m running on grass. Ohmygod, what if I twist my ankle? By the time I finish that first sprint, I remember that my sports bra is too small for me. I look down. My left boob has popped out. I have to finish with my hand cupping my chest, much to the delight of my husband. We take a 2 minute rest, as per whatever fitness website he’s been reading that day. The mosquitoes swarm again, but I’m not breathing all that hard. I can do this…five more of these is no problem. By the third sprint, I’m praying for God to hit my husband with a freak bolt of lightning from out of nowhere. I’m panting and probably foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal. The Captain has beaten me on every sprint, even with the head start he gives me. “No fair!” I yell every time he passes me. “You don’t have boobs to hold up!” “You have more muscle than me!” “I hate you so hard right now!” And he just laughs and keeps running. At the end of the 5th sprint, my legs are shaking and I’m seriously considering punching him in the face. We are in our 2nd minute of rest before the final sprint when I decide to cheat. I yell “Go!” 30 seconds early and run like a crazy person. The Captain yells after me "It's not a race, moron!" but I don't care. My legs are pumping, my arms are swinging wildly, I’m laughing like a hyena. I’m winning this one! Yes!
And then I stepped in a rabbit hole and fell. I lay there like a slug, flat on my face, waiting for my husband to come pick me up and hold me and tell me he’s sorry and he’ll never ever make me do this ever again and then I'll be all "I could have been seriously injured, but I forgive you. Now go buy me some twizzlers" and he totally would on account of all his exercise guilt.
“Get up!” he yells from a distance. I raise my head and realize he has finished his sprint. “You left me here to die without twizzlers!” I scream at him. “Get up! Now we walk for 30 minutes!” he yells back. I roll over onto my back and stare at the sky. Mosquitoes are flying into my eyeballs. I’m sweating through my shorts and my knees are throbbing. I say nothing. He walks over and stands over me. He’s all “Come on, drama queen” and I’m all “I can’t” and he’s all “Yes you can” and I’m all “No you don’t understand!” and he’s all “I know, you’re tired and sore and don’t feel like it. But you will be so happy that you did.” and I’m all “No, it’s not that. I can’t get my boob back in my bra”.
So there we are, silent and motionless for a few minutes. He is contemplating how to get me up and moving again. I am contemplating how to fashion a shiv from blades of grass and my shoelace so I can take him down and shut him up about this exercise bullshit. He pokes me a couple times with the tip of his shoe. "Come onnnn" he whines. "No" I say and roll over onto my side away from him. He sighs and says "I'll go buy you twizzlers if you walk with me". I look over my shoulder at him and contemplate this offer. "What about my boob?" I ask. “It’s dark, no one will notice” he responds.
And that’s how I ended up walking through my neighborhood at 9pm on a Friday with a limp and my boob hanging out of my bra.
Have a Merry, Perimenopause!
3 months ago