Monday, October 18, 2010

Running Towards Something Besides The Buffet

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.

21 comments:

Untypically Jia said...

Well I personally don't know any other way to go for a walk.

As another fat chick with non exercise proof boobs, I commend you for your efforts, and equally condemn your husband. Seriously.

If he makes you go jogging, insist that floppy boobs could give you a black eye and then you'd be too blind to make him dinner.

Megs said...

You'll think I'm completely unhinged when I say this, but I think it kind of sounds like a more fun way to exercise. Like being a kid again. Of course, I don't actually HAVE any breasts, so it's easy me for to say. Mine have never once come popping out of a bra because it was too small. They don't actually make bras small enough for that to happen.

Jules said...

Yay you! Now go get some twizzlers!

Beta Dad said...

It's really sucky when the things you used to do as a kid seem very dangerous all of the sudden. Exercise should probably be done in a sterile, non-rabbit holey environment, if at all.

Kurt said...

Boobs are so awesome. I wish more things that I love would pop out on a regular basis. I'd be all walking down the street and then POW! Boobs and comic books and Pop-Tarts.

A dream is a wish your heart makes, is my point.

diane said...

That was a well written, awesomely great story! For reals.

Steam Me Up, Kid said...

Putting my boobs into a sports bra is like trying to bathe a cat. Complete with yowling and scratch marks.

Daffy said...

Exlax in his dinner....the entire effn bottle and you will be left alone in peace to watch Ghost Hunters. Twizzlers and popcorn....niiiiice!

Didactic Pirate said...

Just remember: it's a good pain. Heh.

I can't tell you how many times I've burst into the room and shouted at my wife, "Shut up and put on your sports bra!" just to see if she'll stare at me, or actually smack me.

Logical Libby said...

Just think of how thankful you will be to the Captain when the zombie apocalypse comes. Unless they eat twizzlers instead of brains. Then you can be really mad.

Vinny C said...

My wife is actually the one who'd push the whole exercise racket in our house - however, she would agree with you that her sports bra is some sort of medieval implement of torture... We don't workout that often.

Vic said...

My dad twisted his leg in a gopher hole and never walked again.
True story.

Twizzlers are safer.

(But I'm actually inspired by you!)

Moooooog35 said...

Shit like this is why THEY INVENTED THE AUTOMOBILE.

Mrs BC said...

You go, Miss Yvonne! Go & get fit for your movie career! (But take care of the boobies, you'll need them for Hello magazine)

And can I just say that Twizzlers & Ghost Hunters sounds like an awesome Friday night? Add some wine & I'm there.

♫ Songbird ♫ said...

Running with big boobs is the WORST! Just give me a jumprope already so I can knock myself out and get it over with.

nova said...

So sports, THEN running, THEN walking? Geez, what is this, the Olympics?

unmitigated me said...

I just bought a new running bra. The website actually shows you a video of a chick, wearing the bra, and bouncing up and down. How could I not invest in that?

Lynne said...

i love your blog you make me laugh soo much. long time reader first time commenter x

Lindsay said...

This might be the funniest blog you have ever written.

The Vegetable Assassin said...

Dude, sports bras are just little stretchy pieces of sheer evil. If you actually NEED a sports bra, either they're ill made and give you a uniboob or they're like effing scaffolding and cost sixty bucks. Either way they're uncomfortable and make you run like you have a pole up your ass or else you flop around blacking your own eyes with your lady lumps or, as you pointed out, they fly out of your cups with wanton abandon and you get nipple burn.

But sprinting? Good for you! The only way I'd get motivated to sprint these days is if someone wired a Mars Bar a foot from my head and made me chase it.

Nina Patricia @ The Adventures of Nina Patricia said...

yeah, I'm the one trying to do some type of exercise and the hubs is like "I'll buy you Ice cream instead".
And of course he wins because I'm such an ice cream whore.That and my boobs tent to fly away too. Hecks, you could have gotten injured!