5K at a Snail's Pace

Running has never pleasurable for me, I've always strayed towards the slow.  I mosey.  I spend more time than I have to doing almost everything.  I get up an hour early in the morning to partake in what I refer to as a "gentle wake up" - have a cup of coffee and look at pictures of cute animals on the internet.  Even though I wake up early, I'm also normally late.

When I'm forced to do something quickly, I'm pretty cranky about it - and historically, this has included running... anywhere.


When my boyfriend decided to run a half marathon I applauded his tenacity - yes!  Run, handsome fit boy!  I'll hold your water bottle!  But then, I started to see how his goal helped him improve, and I saw that for him, having a tangible goal of completing a race turned desire into drive.

So, when he suggested to me that I could try a 5K, I said yes (?!) much to the chagrin of Slow Me.  I believe he actually said, "You're only 30, there's nothing you can't do without a little training!"  I believe the last time I ran for distance was 8th grade as a punishment for being late to gym class - so I'm returning to the sport after 17 years - no big whoop.

I'm following a "Couch to 5K" program and for my first training sessions, I took to the gym.  I'd branded treadmills as thin person gym equipment long ago, in the same way that recumbent bikes were for the infirm and free weights were for boys.  (The elliptical, on the other hand, is for everyone - the Hufflepuff of gym equipment.)

On that first night, while everyone around me chugged away on their treadmill like treadmill wizards, I stepped on to mine and had no idea what to do.  I wanted it to be easy like my elliptical friend - hop on and swoosh swoosh - golden.  I hit start and it said "run" but nothing happened.   I didn't know if I was supposed to clip something to my shirt (it looked like no one else was - that was probably for loser n00bs) but if I clipped something to my shirt, would that make it start?  Instead of asking Dr. Treadmill next to me, I stepped down and tried the only other free treadmill.  It said "err."  "Err" also happened to be the sound I made as I turned around and made my way to my sweet, sweet elliptical haven.  

Ok, so, I have a reasonable amount of gym related anxiety coupled with the crippling need to do things on my own instead of with the help of others.  If I asked someone, I would be bothering them - and I'd look like the fat girl at the gym who doesn't know how to use things.  Instead, I chose to remain the fat girl at the gym who doesn't know how to use things, that night - and no one probably noticed me at all as they were all too engrossed in the episode of "Two and a Half Men" that was playing on pretty much every TV.

The next day I was scheduled to train for the 5K, I went at a less busy time and chose a treadmill at the end of the row.  I hopped on and took my time playing with the settings and started my walk/run.  And then I finished it.  And inside I was bursting.  I'd run on a treadmill.  I was not dead and I didn't almost pass out.  

As a fat woman, the idea of running can almost feel shameful to me - as if I shouldn't actually be able to make those movements with my body.  But, in actuality, when I do make those movements, there are moments where it's almost as if everything inside is opening up and I am doing something primal and perfect.  Most of the other moments are sweaty and breathless and wet from water I spill on my chin while desperately trying to get it in my mouth.  

Something Wonderful

I can remember the first time I apologized for being fat. I was six years old and I was at a rehearsal for the high school's production of "The King and I." I can remember being fawned over and babied by the high school girls and when we'd sit down to listen to the director, they'd whisper for me to come sit on their laps. One day, the tiny sixteen year old who was playing Lady Thiang patted her tiny lap and whispered, "Andrea, come... sit!"

I shook my head, "No, I'm too heavy!"

She giggled and pulled me over to her, "Oh come on!" and as she lifted me over onto her thin thighs, "...oof, you are heavy!"

That was what it took - my baptism into the world of body awareness! Of course, she was sixteen, and I wasn't any heavier than any other six year old she'd pick up, but I'd already planted the seed and it started to grow.

A slightly chubby kid and then a chubby adolescent and then finally a fat woman. Through all of that, I've mixed up my feelings about food and self worth and health and fitness and fun.

The goal of this blog is to chronicle my adventures as I push myself past the boundaries that I set up and maintained - beginning back when I was just a wee little chubby, eyeliner smeared, white girl in Ohio playing the youngest daughter of the King of Siam (and probably before.)