I'd always been a skinny, gangly kid, more concerned about how I could make cotton balls look seamless in my piteously tiny pink training bra than I was about scarfing back six milkshakes and a couple cartons of fries and gravy (which I did frequently and with no repercussions). My legs were toothpicky and I'd often wear multiple sweatshirts to cover up my matchstick arms.
So it was with a little bit of surprise that I took a double-take on a Christmas photo my Mom had taken of my brother and I last year, holiday 2008. I knew I'd been sluggish on my upkeep with the running I've done fairly regularly through most of my life, but I didn't notice I'd become...a little pudgy.
In the picture, I had definite expanded hips. My cheeks were squirrel-like. I could tell that I was sucking in some muffin toppage under my wrap sweater. I stared at the picture and saw it clearly: if I continued eating late night cheese and crackers, continued overindulging on the weekly wine, and refused to commit to regular exercise, I may as well start wearing rollers to the supermarket and conceding defeat to a pair of Reitman's Mom jeans.
I made a pact with myself to start running, to take care of my body in earnest.
***
I started running regularly in early March of this year with a goal to run a city 10K by mid April. At first, 3 kilometers was torture. At first, I had to talk myself into not stopping at every corner. Often, I had chitchat in my head about how it didn't matter, I could always hide my fatskinny underneath strategically striped turtlenecks because I was probably going to end up with seventeen guinea pigs and four cats named Gus in a decrepit mothball smeilling house anyway. I had a son and a job and a lot of responsibility as a single Mom, and in the grand scheme of things, did my butt flab matter? Grumble, grumble, run grudgingly, grumble.
But then I started noticing that my jeans were getting looser around the stomach, that my arms looked a little more sinewy. Crossing the line of that 10K in April, at 54 minutes, made my heart soar with pride I hadn't felt in years. I got even more serious and committed to running every day.
***
I met Corey in mid May and, though stoked about his evident brain and his wicked sense of humour, I was completely freaked out by his muscles. At that point I'd re-committed myself to my exercise and was doing long runs on Sundays and at least 3 or 4 during the week. But after our first date I went back to my friend's apartment and started stalking his Facebook photos, looking for fat patches.
"I don't know if I can ever wear a bathing suit in front of him," I panicked.
"I don't know if you can either."
"I need to step it up another notch."
A dude was my motivation for hitting it harder. I could be mildly embarassed by this: but the thing I believe most about consistent exercise is that the initial motivation doesn't really matter. It's the continued commitment.
***
I'm now about 6 months into a fairly serious commitment to exercise. I run 5 times a week and mostly watch what I eat. New muscles have appeared and I wear a size 6 comfortably. I don't have to totally suck in my gut every time I put on a bathing suit or fitted shirt. And yeah, though I'm still a little sketchy about it, I've gone with Corey to the beach more than a few times. If anything, his commitment to his fitness has just exacerbated my resolve to take it to the next level.
***
I still have work to do. I have muscles I want to build in my stomach and I have some fat I want to lose on my butt. I want to eat better, consistently, and to learn how to keep it consistent on the road, my weakness. This blog will be a journey of all these things, about how to do it with a partner and keep it fresh, exciting and effective. Iit's a quest to find out a bit about you, too, and what works for you, and what you think sucks royally and needs fixing. I'm so looking forward to the journey.
Subscribe