3 weeks ago I got new running shoes. I broke down and went to the fancy, expensive shoe shack here in town where they analyze your walk, your stance, your exercise habits, and even do an imprint of your foot to understand your arches. I spent more than $100 on new running shoes.
Let me just say that I am not a huge runner. I like the idea of running. I like the idea of having a runner’s body even more. But, let’s be real. I’m not built to be a runner. When you see some people run, you can tell they were born for it. There is a certain grace and effortlessness to born runners. I am not one of those people. When you see me lumbering down the road, more generous observers think “good for her—she needs it,” less generous observers think “good Lord, woman, what kind of masochist are you?” My running form is painful. People look away and gratefully take a bite of their jelly donut when they see me run. People would rather stay fat and happy than subject themselves to the misery they perceive in my jiggly jogging.
That is not to say, however, that I am altogether non-athletic. To the contrary, I spent all of my academic life competing in volleyball and basketball, and I’ve earned enough varsity letters and playing time to demonstrate that I am not a complete clod. At 6 feet tall, I was hard for most coaches to overlook to be sure. But for me, running has always been a means to an end. Pre-season conditioning was endured for the promise of playing the games I loved. I was generally the big, slow girl featured on every team. I could never run very far and certainly not very fast.
In addition, due to my long athletic career, I endured injury after injury, particularly to my ankles, but my knees, back, arches, and hips have all suffered their share of strains and sprains. After four pregnancies, and the subsequent ligament stretching and straining and overall weight gain (up 75+ pounds and most of the way back down each time), my poor feet and ankles are just about shot. You can imagine my surprise, then, to discover that I have begun to (gasp!) actually enjoy running. I’ve been getting up early to hit the gym in the mornings, or sneaking away over my lunch hours to climb on the treadmill. I’ve even taken the kids to the park and run the track around the play area, pushing a gleeful queen in the stroller as I trot. I end up looking over my shoulder a lot, making sure Claire isn’t hanging by one foot from the top of the monkey bars and Sam isn’t taking candy from strangers or random babies. And I don’t have a jogging stroller because I could never justify the expense for my sporadic running habits. So I am quite the sight. But my mantra as I run is “at least I’m doing it. At least I’m doing it.” And I do have those cool new shoes.
I am legitimately surprised to find this new enjoyment in jogging. I am even more surprised to find that my expensive new shoes have eliminated all of my pervasive foot pain. Could they actually have been worth it? As far as I’m concerned, shoes that make me WANT to run might just be worth a thousand dollars (don’t tell the retailers). Running has started to feel like an inner cleanse to me. To be honest, I still prefer a nice glass of wine or three to exercise as a stress reliever, but I am altogether delighted to be back in the gym. (Especially since alcohol is not an approved stress reliever in the middle (or beginning) of my work day). And, let’s be honest, regular exercise is the holy grail of working motherhood (along with a regular date night and flossing). But I’m trying. It feels amazing to be back in the gym, where I spent so many gajillions of hours as a teenager and young adult. When I’m there I can kind of imagine away my long list of responsibilities and obligations and just sweat and reconnect with the duck I once was before the Mama part came to pass. Not that I’d trade the little ducks for the body of a gladiator and all the time in the world to maintain it. I’m happy to squeeze in 30 minutes here and there, and then miss weeks at a time when someone gets sick or work gets crazy. But, if I could only somehow master this sweet tooth I just might emerge from this flabby, stretchmarked body as the sleek, streamlined woman I was always meant to be. After all, hot mama sounds pretty good. Hot duck just sounds like a Chinese menu item.
No comments:
Post a Comment