Pickles & Dimes

Last week I ran three miles without stopping. (Somehow I feel the need to clarify that these miles were consecutive.) To say I was impressed with myself would be a grievous understatement, and in fact, once I decided to run the whole distance without stopping, my main motivation was pretty much just to do it so that I could say I did.

My previous longest run without stopping was two miles, which somehow became embedded in my brain as That Distance I Reach So I Can Walk. (True story: as a sprinter in high school, I secretly bummed car rides from friends whenever I was supposed to be out on a long-distance run.) For months, I’d run two miles and automatically walk without even really checking to see if I needed to. After recently completing a mile one night at a decent pace and realizing I wasn’t even breathing hard, I decided it might be time to up the ante.

Whenever I run, I have to engage in this crazy conversation with myself that is full of negotiations (if I run X at Y, I can do Z; X being an arbitrary distance at Y speed, and Z being a completely counterproductive reward such as drinking a liter of Mountain Dew or never exercising again). So once I decided to run the whole distance, I laid out my bargain: If I run the whole three miles, I can do it at a (much) slower speed than I usually run (which admittedly, is not Olympic-caliber to begin with).

As usual, the first four minutes of my run involved an impersonation of a dehydrated camel loping on three legs. At the beginning of my runs, I cannot run in a straight line to save my life. (This is troublesome because if I take one wrong step, the treadmill will propel me directly into a wall.) But, on the plus side, I was so preoccupied with hating everything that the time went faster: I fiddled with my iPod cord, I got irritated at my shoelace whapping against my ankle, I peeled my bangs out of my eyes for the eight thousandth time, and I worried about Shorty looking like he was about to leap onto the treadmill (this happened once, and was about as hilarious and awkward as you might imagine).

After the first mile, everything settled down. I wasn’t tired and time seemed to be floating by, so like an overconfident idiot, I increased my speed. That lasted about 37 seconds. At mile two, my face felt like it could legitimately start nearby paper products on fire and I was sweating from places I didn’t even know could produce sweat (my elbows?). And, this is undocumented, but I swear that the treadmill timer started counting slower.

At mile 2.5, determined to gut it out, I focused on my iPod. Instead of running to my usual exercise playlist, I had hit shuffle, and of course every song blaring in my ears was instrumental or classical or the slowest song ever to be composed, OH MY GOD. So I wasted a lot of time jabbing the fast-forward button while issuing loud sounds of annoyance. But I did it: three whole miles. Without stopping.

Now I never have to exercise again.

It’s been nearly 2 1/2 weeks since we’ve gotten our treadmill and endured an epic battle getting the 200-lb. thing out of the truck, avoiding the front of the ice-covered steps in favor of going up the side of them (Me: “I can’t do this because I can’t lift my leg high enough because the box is in the way and too heavy to lift higher.” Jason: “Just do it!” Me: “It. Is. Impossible, Dammit!”) and down 13 steps while Jason had the weight of the box to lean against his chest while I was hunched forward trying to keep the box from slipping down the stairs and crushing him (Me: “We should switch places. I can’t hold onto it like this. There’s no handles.” Jason: “No. Just lift it.” Me: “What if we just opened the box upstairs and brought the parts downstairs?” [Ed. note: I still do not understand why this fantastic idea was not greeted with enthusiasm] Jason: “No. Just do it!” Me: “There. Is. NOTHING. To. Hold. Onto!!!” Repeat for 30 minutes).

But we finally got it downstairs and assembled, and we’ve been using it ever since and recording our progress on a spreadsheet. We’re both eager to run and excited about getting fit, and I’ve been peppering Jason with questions about his approach to running: What music do you listen to? What do you think about? Do you try to run for a certain time or distance? How can you run for so long without stopping? Are you a robot? Etc., etc.

I don’t think I’ll ever have the runner mentality where I’ll be running and all of a sudden, whoops, 15 miles just flew by without my noticing, you know? The whole time I am running, I am keenly aware that I am running. My legs, arms and lungs are all quite aware, thank you, and my hair capitalizes on the opportunity to find the best way to plaster itself into my eyeballs.

The first time I ran, I looked at the display the whole time and stopped at a pre-determined time, not because my body actually felt tired. So since then, I’ve been zoning out, trying not to think about anything at all, and especially not thinking about how much time has elapsed, or how I’ll make a deal that I can walk once I reach a mile, or how I can slow down once a song is over. I’m focusing on my body instead. How my legs sometimes burn, how my breathing feels (I can definitely tell when I don’t use my inhaler since I have a 5-minute coughing fit afterwards), how my speed increases if Andrew W.K. or Rob Zombie are part of my playlist.

I’m no longer noticing how Shorty sometimes comes over and almost touches his nose to the moving belt; how Sunny looks prepared to leap onto the treadmill display, fall onto the moving belt and get shot into the wall, leaving behind a cartoon, cat-shaped hole; or how my disembodied, bouncing head must look through the basement window to the neighbors.

All I’m thinking about is how awesome it’s going to feel when I’m done and can record my latest progress. And how each time I get better and better.

Say there! I have a question for you guys! And even though I probably won’t listen to your advice and I’ll do whatever I want anyway (just ask Jason), give me your opinion, please.

OK: here’s the deal. Obviously, with the economy and it being Christmastime and the fact that my paycheck will be about $300/month smaller (increase in health costs and parking costs), money is…tight. Not do-or-die tight, mind you, but I have to be smarter with my money and just use it on necessities like:

- Housing

- Food (including the staples needed for homemade chicken dumpling soup, to which I am hopelessly addicted)

- DVR (seriously, with the pets running amok and puking and/or chasing each other all over the place, the DVR has been a lifesaver)

- Mountain Dew (grandfathered in)

- Chapstick

Now I know clothing is kind of a necessity, what with that whole law about being naked in public places and such, and technically, I don’t need new clothes, but none of my pants fit anymore. I’m wearing my favorite pants today and they’re so baggy I can take them off without unzipping them (I proved this – at work [in the bathroom, of course]). So while I am technically dressed, these pants are dragging on the ground and not even wearing my highest heels solves this problem. Also, belts look stupid on me (something to do with the visual representation of a belt buckle sticking out farther than my chest).

So you’re saying, buy some new pants, already, right? But here’s the thing: I’ve lost weight through mysterious means. Means such as half-heartedly working out 2-3 times a MONTH, still eating the same crap and slowly walking the dog every night. All that non-exercise somehow added up to a 12-lb. loss. I know, it sucks to be me, right? Believe me, I’m just as bewildered as you are (although pleased as punch).

But the thing is, I’m not sure if I want to spend money on new pants now because I feel if I actually applied myself, I could lose the remaining 9 lbs. to get to what I consider my ideal weight.

So should I buy some new pants now and then buy some more later if I lose the remaining weight, or should I just wait until I’m at my ideal weight?

Weigh in, please! (HA.)

Yesterday I discovered an angry bite on my calf. Naturally, I thought of Julie’s spider bite entry. Then this morning while jogging, I saw another fresh bite on my arm.

When I shared my valid concerns about either a) gaining super powers or b) dying via a poisonous spider, Jason attempted to cheer me up by relating a story involving his childhood neighbors, whose children kept waking up to bug bites, tons of bug bites, and guess what? Those weren’t bug bites, those were BAT BITES, aahhhhhhh.

Anyway, listen up. I am going to admit something I’ve never thought I would admit. Have you prepared yourselves?

I like getting up early to exercise.

God.

For full disclosure, there really isn’t an option to NOT get up, what with the cats being obnoxious and the resulting Guilt Trip if I don’t, but with our 90% humidity lately, working out in the mornings makes sense.

We jog at the high school track, where I keep up with Jason for exactly one lap, before my jog resembles “the next step above barely moving.” I take my asthma inhaler as soon as I wake up, but more often than not, it doesn’t really start working for me until my workout is nearly over, so my workouts are spent comparing how my breathing resembles getting my oxygen intake through various types of drinking straws. (Yesterday: regular drinking straw. Today: tiny mixing straw. Tomorrow: possibly one of those screwy, curlicue kids straws.)

The “less pop” mission is going well too. When I do indulge, even though I love the taste, I feel gross and bloated afterwards. My weight is about the same, maybe down a pound or two, although the past three days, my pants have all fit suspiciously looser and droopier.

To top it off, we’re nearly done with week 2 of the 100 pushups challenge, and as I was sitting in a work meeting this morning, I felt something hard on both of my arms.

I think it’s muscles.

Or more spider bites.