I put on a few pounds over the winter. I wasn’t too worried about it, summer does eventually come in Minnesota and I knew I’d soon be out playing in the sun, and comfort foods would take a back seat to days that the lake, hiking, and biking my favorite trails.
But, my clothes don’t fit quite right, just a little pulling and tugging in areas that last summer didn’t pull and tug.
On one of my excursions out of doors, I was immediately faced with several wardrobe malfunctions and a hair tie emergency. While facing these challenges I was passed by a couple of bicyclists. One had all white hair, and the oddest looking tattoo on her calf. It occurred to me that we are fast approaching if not already in a generation of adults and old people that have many and ridiculous tattoo’s and bear names like Trevor, Hunter, Destiny and Tiffany. Imagine it, adults with these names. In about 5 years we’ll be introduced to a line up of Chloe, Zoe, Tyler, Conner and Noahs. Don’t get me wrong, I love tattoo’s. I have one, and want more. I admire them, some of them are amazing works of art, and others obvious expressions of bad bad decision making.
Back to my wardrobe malfunctions.
True to form at precisely the same moment I was attempting to discreetly remove my ill fitting shorts from places no man has gone before, I was passed by a rather attractive and fit young man bounding up the hill like a gazelle. Slightly embarrassed, I began to whistle along to the song playing in my ear buds. You know, to demonstrate my cardiac endurance and that just because I was walking and slightly panting didn’t mean that my lungs weren’t capable of such exertions. To my delight as I reached mile one, I hit my groove, I loosened up, my stride lengthened and I began to walk faster. Which in turn increased the number and frequency of my clothing glitches.
Step, step, pull, grab, step, step, step, twist, yank…repeat.
At this point I consider running just to end this screw up of a workout, but I quickly recall that I wore a “walking” bra, not a “running” bra. So all the ladies out there know how that works out.
Why is it when you are battling all these issues, including the hair tie breaking which causes your beautiful long tresses to be glued to the back of your overly sweaty neck, you are passed by the tiny little zero? You know who I am talking about. The size zero, with her flat stomach and non existent evidence that she just gave birth to that adorable infant in the stroller that she pushes while prancing past you. Oh yeah, and she was wearing pink (always with the pink), there is ALWAYS a bobbing pony tail too, and is that a sports bra you’ve got to be kidding me – you don’t need one honey, it’s just that, there’s not…never mind. Don’t get your undies in a bundle (and not just because mine already are), I’m really just jealous that I didn’t look like that after my pregnancy…twins…they wreaked much havoc on my body. I don’t care how old they are…that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Was that an iced coffee in the cup holder?
Step, step, pull, grab, step, step, step, yank, twist, step.
Music is key in any exercise routine. It can speed you up, slow you down, motivate you, make you cry, or cause a spontaneous dance party mid workout. I particularly enjoy the songs that start out with intros that have rain storms or leaves rustling or babies cooing. They always illicit a certain reaction in me. Hearing these among the passing traffic, real birds and barking dogs, I invariably presume there is a heinous attacker about to overtake me and leave me for dead. So I quickly spin around to face them so they know…that I KNOW they are there, I make eye contact and look determined and fierce, only to meet the air.
Pull shorts down and out…resume walking activities.
With all my chafing skin, dripping sweat, pulling and tugging.
How come I didn’t notice? Where the heck did all these elite athletes come from? They weren’t behind me a second ago. No doubt they are in training for the Olympics. Bulging biceps, ripped quads, sculpted shoulders and killer abs. Well, OK maybe that is exaggerating a bit. OK maybe a lot. OK upon closer inspection they are just over middle aged men, OK just one, with a white ring of hair around their head, springing forth gallantly in their running pursuits, bounding up hills, not seeming to breath hard or even sweat. Heavy sigh.
On the upside, the same middle aged men passing by in their Corvettes and Mustangs are checking me out! Probably because they haven’t seen this much flesh jiggling and bouncing for months. I realize this isn’t really an upside, but with all the emotional trauma that I have just experienced in this brief walk, I’ve just got so little to work with at this moment.
Eeek! One of my favorite running songs just came on! Oh, how I want to run, it just gets in your blood and you must RUN…but alas no running bra, and despite my woes and tribulations, I do not have a desire to knock myself out, so I refrain and just pump my arms a little faster, swollen fingers and all.
Finally, I have decided to just roll up my shorts and put them where they were determined to go anyway, problem solved.