One Foot In Front Of The Other

I am married to a longtime runner, and every time he talks about the satisfaction of pushing through pain and mental obstacles to reach the "runner's high," I look at him like he has grown a third arm.

I have done many, many things that initially frightened or intimidated me, but running always struck me as the I Cannot Do. It's not just that it's hard. Lifting weights is hard, but I do that. Bike intervals are hard, but I do those, too. Ignoring a table full of hot dogs and hamburgers while eating a clean salad is excruciating. But I did that on Saturday.

Even when I was a kid, I wasn't very good at the simple act of running. In my junior high P.E. class, I was generally one of the slowest people on the track. More than anything else we did - archery, softball, tennis - running was the thing that seemed to set the strong and athletic apart from the ... not. Let's face it, you don't see many chubby runners.

A very fit friend who helped me overhaul my diet and workout routine is convinced that I have what it takes to run regularly, and she encouraged me to try a couch-to-5K over several weeks. She knows that, for me, this is as much about overcoming a mental obstacle as melting fat. I mean, I could do Zumba for cardio. A big part of my weight loss project has been getting past the phrase "I can't."

So I downloaded Week One of this podcast, laced up my shoes and went to work. The 30-minute drill for Week One, bookended by a five minute warmup and cool down, was to run for one minute, walk briskly for 90 seconds, and repeat. I'd like to say that I surprised myself with my stamina and speed, but it pretty much sucked. I didn't quit, but halfway into the podcast, when host Robert Ullray told me it was time to start running again, I spent the next 60 seconds repeating the F-bomb. When I got home, sweaty and angry about how fat and slow I felt, my husband high-fived me. I went to the shower muttering something like "Fuck running," and my son asked me why I looked so mad. I mean, it's not I like was totally out of shape; I'd already been doing a solid cardio routine for months. Yet, the podcast kicked my ass.

When I did it a second time, it still sucked — but a tiny bit less. I did it again today, and while I wasn't stoked, I didn't feel like I was going to die, either. The last interval was a bit much, but I just kept going. No one was going to be captivated by my speed or gazelle-like grace, but holy shit, I was running.

I've got a long, long way to go in my fitness journey, but for now, consistently putting one foot in front of the other feels like a victory lap.

Hearing the click

When I was at my peak weight, I called my sister and bitterly complained about how much I hated shopping and how clothing stores were conspiring to give large women the ugliest choices imaginable. My sister is much smaller than I am, but she lives in Los Angeles, possibly the only city on Earth where she would be considered heavy. She told me that I was taking shopping too personally.

I know what she meant, but clothing is very personal. It's one of the most basic ways to express yourself, but few of the clothes available to me had anything to do with who I was on the inside.

About a year ago, I heard what my friend H. often refers to as "the click." It was the moment when I decided that was tired of being dragged down, physically and emotionally, by my weight. The clothes were ugly. My feet hurt. I felt like shit. While I had been 15-20 pounds overweight for years, things took a turn for the ridiculous after I had my second child and turned 35. I was struggling to fit into sizes that I had once deemed unacceptable.

I feel compelled to say that is about me and me alone, not my judgment of other people who are overweight. It's kind of like parenting. You have no idea what it's like until you experience it, and everyone has their own philosophy. As a black person from the South, I come from a culture that has a ... liberal view of what constitutes an acceptable weight. I know many large, lovely women who have vast stores of self-confidence. Good for them.

According to every weight chart I've ever seen, a person my height (5'4") and age (39) shouldn't weigh more than 146 pounds, so I've got quite a bit of work to do. I don't think I've ever weighed that little as an adult, and I haven't been within shouting distance for at least 12 years. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to try.

Better late than never.