Thursday, August 19, 2010


Slow. Yeah, that pretty much describes my pace, be it run, bike, or swim.

But it could be worse. I could be unable to run, bike, or swim, and how crappy would that be?

I have never been an athlete. As a kid, my dad nicknamed me "grace" because of my general physical ineptitude. I vastly preferred sitting on the front porch with a book than running and playing with the neighborhood knuckleheads. Invariably, when trying something "sporty" I'd end up injured or embarrassed. Begged off on gym class as often as possible.

I have also never been skinny. And I don't mean an extra ten pounds that won't come off. I mean at the age of 14 I was 5 feet 9 inches, weighed 170 pounds, and looked like a full grown woman. Most of it was (and is) boobs and butt. Oh, and thighs. Now, after 2 kids, there's a tummy pooch too. Fun.

So for me to consider donning spandex and doing physical activity which causes my jiggly parts to jiggle even more violently . . . well, let's just say it wasn't in the picture.

Until I visited my hometown this past spring. I come from a small town in the South, and down there you don't run unless you're being chased by someone. Vegetables are boiled until gray with fat back included, and fruits generally come out of a can. Meat is almost always fried. It shows.

And I saw my mother for the first time in four years. She is probably up to 400 pounds now, and between the weight and her rheumatoid arthritis she can barely walk. I love her, but I have that genetic disposition, and I don't want to be her.

So here I am, on an almost daily basis wiggling my feet into funny shoes and sweating profusely, to get myself healthier.

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