Don't Fat Men Waddle?

As you may have guessed by the little blog title up there, I have a couple things that I think define me pretty well:

1. I am (or at one point was) fat.
2. I like to run.

The former point is a matter of opinion. No, I don't wear 52 inch jeans, but I don't have a six pack either. I'm somewhere in between. Only a handful of lucky ladies have had the opportunity to really take in the full picture and unless one of them surprises me with a comment, I may never know the truth.

The latter point is a little more interesting to talk about. I like to run. That's easy to say, right? Well, leave it to me to complicate such a simple statement. I like to run sometimes. I think the new (and outstanding) New Balance commercials say it best - I have a love and hate affair with running.

If you were to plot my interest in running, it would resemble a Sine wave.


It's a continuous cycle of up and down. Love and hate. Black and white. 1 and 0. It starts out innocently enough, with a sunny afternoon waddle through the streets of whatever city I'm living in.

A few weeks later I've found that my time has improved, I'm up to 5-6 miles at a time and really enjoying life. If I kept at this level, all would be good. I'm losing weight, feeling great and am happier in general.

It's the next step that's the problem. "Self," I say, "You should really train for a race. You'll get in great shape, get a t-shirt and maybe even meet a cute girl or two." This is an ideal thought. Then competitiveness sets in. I ran a 54 minute 10k last week? Better knock that down to 52 minutes. My friend is training for a 10 miler? I should up it to a half marathon.

Bloody nipples, chaffing and road side bathroom breaks* become a common topic of discussion with my friends, who gratefully endure such talk. I start to get burnt out. My knees and ankles hurt. I'm sleeping 10 hours a night and don't have much of an appetite. Overall, it is becoming a very enjoyable experience. Next time I'll just poke myself in the eye and have it done and over with in 10 minutes.




Finally, the much anticipated race will come and go. I'll promptly swear off running seconds after crossing the finish line. I'll take a few weeks off before vowing to start lifting. Or maybe pick up some spandex and start roller blading. Then again, some co-ed dodgeball or soccer might do the trick. Whatever the next activity is, it won't be running. Anything that doesn't end in me waking up at 5am, wearing a bib, and sporting some short shorts sounds like a good idea.

Then a few months later the whole process will start again (see above Sine wave - man, do I love math). I know running is the trailer dwelling, undershirt wearing, menthol light smoking boyfriend who will continue to wail away on me, but I just can't escape. I need to be sore. I need the attention. I need the love/hate relationship.

And there you have the overly complex explanation of my blog's name. And remember, if you see me on COPS, please realize it was the running that made me do it.



*I've found these can be solved by band-aids, runner's lube and Immodium AD, respectively.