Blogatron

This Is Not My Sports Bra, These Are Not My Ergonomic Shoes

I am wearing a watch, which is, in itself, peculiar. I haven't worn a watch for several years, since the battery on my oh-so-cool watch with a spring-loaded cover over the face died, and I realized that I liked the freedom I felt without it.

What's even stranger is the reason for the watch. Due to my growing concern over the ill-fitting pants problem, I found myself last week taking a tour of the fitness center in the building where I work. It's great - free classes with your membership, nice showers, a discount for people who work in the building, a location so convenient that even I would have a hard time finding an excuse to avoid it. And, oh, good exercise equipment.

But I decided to postpone that commitment. One, the money is tight, as I am sure you are aware from the constant carping. Two, I went from "Hmm let's see about this" to "Would you like to sign up today?" in about fifteen minutes, and that's dangerous. Surely the fitness center membership is the worst kind of impulse buy: if it doesn't work out, not only are you out a lot of money, but the usual moral taint of having spent on something you're not using is intensified by the feeling that it was a waste only because you are a big lazy. No need for all that pressure.

So I decided to implement Plan Wear Favorite Jeans Without Hoochie Bulge* with a radical and daring solo strategy. It is radical because it involves major changes, and daring because it touches directly on my weaknesses. Its main elements are simple: 1) get up early in the mornings; 2) go outside the house and run around. This plan flies in the face of two things I consider integral to my nature: a love of sleep, and a tendency to either remain at rest or get from motion to there as fast as possible.

The watch was purchased so that I would know when to stop running and come home. My other investments: a pair of sneakers, a supply of batteries for the walkman. I will also surely need to supplement my current exercise wardrobe (one pair of yoga pants, two ratty t-shirts, a rather revealing tank top) in the near future. This is how we save money, Hilatron-style.

So I've been doing this thing, this running thing, this actually mostly walking thing, since Monday. I skipped Wednesday, so I have done this thing four times. The feelings experienced as a result of the thing are numerous and varied. Hope, for the glorious-pantsed future; fear, that I may fail; pain. Pain especially in the muscles that take me up and down stairs, it would seem, if one can judge from all the screaming and stiff-legged lurching that accompanied my every movement this week.

Those are just the surface emotions, though. Deeper down, there is a complex series of events unfolding. My attitude towards jogging, and by extension, those who do it, has not been very positive in the past. Rather than deal with the fact that I was just too lazy to move around a lot, I chose to heap scorn upon the very idea. Running - it was the ultimate jock thing, the ultimate all-American thing, the ultimate stupid luxury: look at me, I have enough money and free time to torture myself so that I can feel superior to you! I was not lethargic; I was too cool for all that sweating. I stayed up too late; I slept in; I was groggy and surly and last-minute in the mornings, not bouncy and healthy.

So now, as I jog, trudge, or stumble along, strange things happen. When I pass other runners, the usual thought mechanisms kick in: "Pfeh! Look at her! What a dork! Who does she think she is, anyway? What kind of a way to pass the time is that?" and then realization sets in: oh, yeah. I'm one of them now. Just one step closer to yuppiedom, just one more piece of a package I used to summarily dismiss embraced.

In order to salvage my rebellious counter-culture identity, I have made a couple of vows to myself. 1) I will never do that thing that joggers do where they shove in front of you at intersections and bounce around, waiting for the light to change, as if they are just! so! energetic! they! can't! stop! moving, and by the way, you are blocking the sidewalk with your lazy ass, how dare you be in front of them? Talk to me all you want about how it keeps your heart rate up or your muscles warm or whatever, it's obnoxious. I'll stick to the car-free trail near my house, or risk the danger of slowing and cooling. 2) I will never stretch in public. It just looks silly. 3) I will never tell people about how I have so much more energy now that I'm running, it's great, they should really try it, the endorphins are amazing. The people who make these statements are clearly protesting too much. Let's face it, running just isn't that much fun. There might be good reasons for exercise, but then there are good reasons to go to the dentist, and you don't hear anyone trying to convince you how much fun that is.

Let's get this straight: I'm doing this running thing for one reason and one reason only, and that's pants.

*hoochie bulge, noun. The effect of wearing pants that are too tight in the waist band area, causing a lollop of extra flesh to bulge out over the top, especially on the sides. So named after the habit of certain young women to wear midriff-baring tops with pants that are slightly too tight, seemingly unaware that this tends to detract from, rather than enhance, their charms. See also: yeast infection pants, old fogey.

Posted by hilatron at June 20, 2003 08:27 AM