Run to the hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiills. Run for your liiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiiiiiiiife

I love Iron Maiden. They helped me get through my "run" yesterday, as a matter of fact.
I decided that since I can't afford a gym and don't own a car (and have no plans to buy one until I finish college), I'm going to take up running. And so, yesterday, I strapped on two sports bras, grabbed my Ipod, warmed up, and jogged to the end of the block.
And. Almost. Died.
By the time I got to the end of the block, I thought I was going to have to turn around and limp home. My calves were on fire (which REALLY pisses me off, because my calves are on "my" side. They're still fairly hardcore), and there didn't feel like there was enough air in the world to satisfy my lungs needs. I wanted to turn around and go home, and I could still see my apartment, so it wouldn't have been that far to go.
But, I pressed on. Not ready for an all out jog (an all out jog for me being about half a mile), I walked a block, jogged a block. I did cheat a little - I headed toward where the blocks were longer, but downhill so that it wasn't so much of a stretch, but I DID manage this for 1.5 miles (And yes, I am paying for it today. Fuck you, calves).
Iron Maiden, Rammstein, and the Beatles got me through, and I fought the urge that night to reward my run with a Reese cup. So, all in all, I call yesterday a success. Except for the part where I stepped out of the shower, and onto my belt, giving myself a blood blister on the ball of my foot. And there's a huge part of me thinking "Damn you, blood blister. Can't run today. Oh, shucks". And probably I won't approach my workout with the same level of harcorium that I did yesterday. But I WILL head out the door.
I read an article today about how all sorts of people say that they want to lose weight, but will then go to a neighbors superbowl party and scarf down nachos. The author implied that if nachos are a bigger priority to you then weight loss, then you're not ready to lose weight. G-d, I miss Reese cups. I especially miss those Reese Eggs that people have around Easter. But I can't make Reese eggs a priority.

Love Thy Self

Someone told me I had a nice figure the other day, and I was shocked.
Literally shocked. I thought...this dude just saw me yesterday. He's obviously talking about my yesterday body...why would he say something like that?
And on the heels of that, I thought "That is so, so wrong.".
I know this is a bitchy girl's guess to achieve her former hotness (and combat diabetes!), but shouldn't I love myself? Shouldn't I tell myself that the reason I have no trouble getting laid is in part because I'm pretty and not just because of my movie quoting, comic reading, awesome personality?
So this week I'm officially apologizing to all of my body parts. The flabby ones, the saggy ones, the stretch mark scarred and the bits that actually aren't that bad to look at, due to my former athleticism. I'm sorry for hating you. For hiding you under layers and layers. For putting too much cleavage on display to compensate for having so much "junk in the trunk", it looks like a flea market back there.
I'm sorry. And I love that you keep me warm, and mobile, and you keep my organs from falling out, too.
I'm sorry. And I'm going to work harder at our relationship, I promise.

70 pounds of awkward.

Every picture taken of me in the past three years shows me in the same pose. Looking at the camera, chin in hand. I'm not acting forlorn, I'm not in the habit of wistfully starting out windows whenever cameras are present, either. What I'm doing is hiding a terrible, terrible secret (terrible only to those on Facebook, or Myspace, whom I haven't seen in years, that is) -- my cheeky chap, chin number two.
Having not perfected the "fat girl action shot" (tilt head down, hold camera up), I have to rely on my tiny T-rex hands to hide Number 2. God forbid those estranged Facebook friends see that I've put on weight in the ten years since graduation. It would be just awful if my not-born-yet, and not-planned-upon children were to stumble onto them in ten years when I'm almost forty and fabulous. So, I hide my double chin. I kind of hate him anyway...he always gets the first AND last laugh, and he sort of makes me look like a bullfrog. Flattering, huh?

I wasn't always sending mental hate mail to my double chin. I could give a million reasons as to why I let myself get fat - and it was a "fat getting", not an "always have been so". I used to be fairly athletic when I was younger, one might even venture to say quasi-jock-ish. I spent my teens and early twenties with soccer players legs, hard as a rock calves and teeny ankles, made to look smaller by my o so cool super soled Sketchers. Now my legs continue to wave for a good ten seconds after I've stopped. It irks me that they're so enthusiastic all the time.

Here I am now, two years from 30, with seventy pounds of awkward hanging on my 5'2" frame. Being in my late twenties, I am naturally becoming more mature (read snobbier) and more socially aware (read occasionally picks up the paper so as not to feel stupid in trendy coffee shops) and all of this news I'm reading about obesity, and health problems and blah, blah, blah is causing me to lose a little sleep. Or, it could be the obesity itself that's to blame for my insomnia...In either case, it's time to throw down. Choke down a salad once in a while. Admit to my friends that I occasionally do that Carmen Electra strip tease exercise video. Stop looking at my self as my own not so secret Santa (my belly too shakes like a bowl full of jelly). And of course, bitch about it on the internet.