The Run

Do you remember that high school teenager that could run? I mean... actually run. I'm not talking about running after your three year old, or the dog when it tracks mud onto your freshly cleaned floors. I'm not even talking about when you catch your one year old stuffing crayon into her mouth and you have to chase her down before she chews (and swallows) them.
Once upon a time, twenty years ago (okay, not really-- it was nine), I could run. Not in track or anything (ha!), but I didn't feel as if I needed to catch my breath just chasing down a runaway five year old in Walmart.

Sometimes you get cocky, and you forget that it's been nine years and you've had three babies and the only exercise you get is running after three kids, two dogs, and a cat (sometimes all together). This past summer was one of those times. My husband and I were in the car when I gloatingly told him that I could jog/walk a mile, no sweat (in a certain amount of time that he laughed at). I told him it was true. I could run, dang it! And so he mapped out a mile, then goaded me into running it. He said he would time me. 

I decided it was time to put that man in his place for not believing me. I KNEW that when I was finished with my mile he would have to apologize and I would rub it in (I expected some groveling, perhaps a bouquet of roses and diamond earrings at the least).

I decided to take one of my dogs, Whiskey, as it was dark and he's a boxer (supposedly a wonderful jogging dog) -- did I mention he was perhaps just a year old at the time? And that he's never jogged with anyone in his life? Okay, now that we have the facts down... I put on my 'running' gear. That's right, sports bra, skin tight workout tank top and yoga type pants. 

I started out just fine, despite my husband and his smirk, standing outside of the house with his watch, and my dog who decided running back and forth in front of me was a good idea. About two minutes in I kept telling myself I could do this. I WOULD run that mile, even if I was winded and my side was burning. 

About a minute after that I was repeating "I think I can, I think I can" in my head. I was absolutely certain that my husband had bribed my dog to try and kill me, along with drugging the water I'd had a sip of before leaving the house. 

About half a mile in I knew I wasn't going to make it another block, let alone the rest of the mile. I could swear my body was ripping itself apart, claiming revenge for years of no exercise. I dragged myself inside, ignoring the wide grin on my husband's face. I knew I was dying. There was something wrong. I'd contracted a running disease and would never breathe again. I was sure that I was coughing blood. I hauled myself into the bathroom where I draped my pain filled body over the vanity, thinking I was going to die. All for a stupid comment about how I could run a mile in whatever length of time I'd bragged. I've had three children with no pain medication, and I've never felt such pain. However...
I survived. 

Point?
This year, I WILL get into shape. My friend told me the other day that we're going to do a couch to 10k run. Yes, there was a 'we' in there. At this point I can't imagine a mile, let alone 10K. I'm not certain if she's delusional, or if she's conspired with my husband to murder me.
So that's goal numero uno this year. One hot mom body coming up. Hopefully.