Running scared
I'm going jogging tomorrow. No, I've never done it before. No, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. All I know is I'm sick and tired of inhabiting a bag of porridge, and that I want thighs like sculpted marble which shimmer excitingly in the summer sunshine. This summer, I do not want to sit on a pub bench in a split-front skirt and look down to discover I have cultivated a lap-arse. Puts you right off your Pimms, that does.
So I'm going running with Clara. We are going running. Clara and I are going running. Of course. The reason I chose Clara is Caroline told me she used to belong to the gym's running club. When quizzed on her days as a dedicated pavement pounder, it was revealed that she only went twice, and everyone thought she was asthmatic. But, compared to me, she's a pro, so we're meeting at midday in Bushy Park.
The problem I have is that I don't actually know HOW to run. You might as well ask me to perform a backflip, scale a building, or clamber about on monkey bars. My body's like - wha? Do wha? Last time I really f*ckin ran for a train (I do believe the journey was from Sunbury to New Malden, and the year was 1995), I still had the shakes after a 25 minute train ride, and I had to scoff an entire bag of peanut M&Ms in order to recover.
Thing is, I have to run as I am too skint to join the gym, too busy to go to the gym, and there, um, is no gym near my house. I have tracksuit bottoms, I have trainers. I have fat arms that look like sacks of spam. After a monumental and decade long battle, the white-knuckled hand of the fiery combined force of my vanity and self-loathing is finally twisting around and edging down the determined limb of my hell-bent laziness in their eternal arm-wrestle. I want to look good in hot pants. No matter how much I want to lie on the sofa watching Charmed, I just really, really want to look good in hot pants. And I know that, if I were to disrobe from my PJs and pour myself into my Ibiza shorts, the resulting image would make me cry.
So.
Looks like I'm going running.
So I'm going running with Clara. We are going running. Clara and I are going running. Of course. The reason I chose Clara is Caroline told me she used to belong to the gym's running club. When quizzed on her days as a dedicated pavement pounder, it was revealed that she only went twice, and everyone thought she was asthmatic. But, compared to me, she's a pro, so we're meeting at midday in Bushy Park.
The problem I have is that I don't actually know HOW to run. You might as well ask me to perform a backflip, scale a building, or clamber about on monkey bars. My body's like - wha? Do wha? Last time I really f*ckin ran for a train (I do believe the journey was from Sunbury to New Malden, and the year was 1995), I still had the shakes after a 25 minute train ride, and I had to scoff an entire bag of peanut M&Ms in order to recover.
Thing is, I have to run as I am too skint to join the gym, too busy to go to the gym, and there, um, is no gym near my house. I have tracksuit bottoms, I have trainers. I have fat arms that look like sacks of spam. After a monumental and decade long battle, the white-knuckled hand of the fiery combined force of my vanity and self-loathing is finally twisting around and edging down the determined limb of my hell-bent laziness in their eternal arm-wrestle. I want to look good in hot pants. No matter how much I want to lie on the sofa watching Charmed, I just really, really want to look good in hot pants. And I know that, if I were to disrobe from my PJs and pour myself into my Ibiza shorts, the resulting image would make me cry.
So.
Looks like I'm going running.
posted by Elizabeth at 3:25 PM
3 Comments:
ROFLMAO. Best of luck with the running, mate. You keep at it or we'll tease you to death for giving up.
This is a very, very funny blog! Good luck with the running - you're braver than me.
I ran about 50 metres to catch a train the other day. I thought I was going to die. Exercise + moi = bad bedfellows.
Good luck.
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