Ruminations of a Red Dirt Hussy

February 26, 2012

Don’t you dare dare ME!

Filed under: Blogroll,General — Vadasmaker @ 10:09 pm

I once heard somebody on TV say that when she felt like exercising she just flung herself face down on the couch until it passed. I could do that. Well, no. I couldn’t. All I’d see in my mind is my big fat butt getting bigger and fatter. Besides that, my elliptical is right beside the couch, hunched there, staring at me.

I don’t know what it is I hate about exercise. It’s actually kind of pleasurable sometimes. Like when somebody else is doing it and I’m just watching. I’ve sat through entire videos of somebody doing step aerobics. You know. So I’d know what I was doing when I actually stood up. But I had to watch it several times. I figured if I watched three times a week for an hour it would count as exercise. I don’t know why not. Sitting in the office preparing manuscripts to send out counts as writing time. Why should exercise be any different?

I just hate to sweat. It’s sooo unattractive. And icky. And even though I put the floor fan on top of the coffee table and point it at me, turn on the ceiling fan, turn off the heat, and open the windows, sweat happens.

Why can’t I be one of those women who couldn’t work up a sweat in a furnace? Who takes a sweater to a 4th of July picnic? Just in case. That woman is the same one who says she just has no appetite at all. Can’t force down a single bite of that carrot cake.

Please. I could eat the entire cake with a quart of ice cream. In my sleep. I hate that woman. Suffice to say we are not related. I’m not even sure we’re of the same species. She’s probably a morning person, too.

My son reveled in any exercise or hard, physical work. The more sweat, the better. On Saturday mornings he’d crawl out of bed covered with bruises, cuts, abrasions, and swellings, from his Friday night football game. He’d grin like a fool when he talked about how he got this one and that one and the other one. The kid hauled hay for fun. Well, and for money. But in my mind, hauling hay must be the worst possible job.

The sun. The sweat. The hay sticking you through your jeans and long sleeved shirt. The occasional snake. And the sunshine of my life loved it. I wonder if it’s possible he’s not mine?

I used to run. Not very fast. Maybe a 17-minute mile. I did it for the best reason in the world. No, not health. What do you take me for? Reasonable? No. I did it because I was dared. Sort of. TBL ran, and one day I was lying on the couch (no spying exercise equipment then) in front of the air conditioner when he came in, all sweaty and skinny.

I said, stupidly, I might add, that I wished I were a runner. You know what he said? No, don’t guess. I’ll tell you. He, in his infinite wisdom and his delusion that he knew me well, said, “Hah. You’d never do it. You can’t stand to sweat.” And of course you know what happened. I ran. Not until I was appropriately attired.

By appropriately, I mean clothes that made me look like I knew what I was doing. How does anybody know what you’re supposed to be if you don’t have on the right clothes?

I did look fine, I must say. Of course, that’s before gravity took its toll. Besides, the fact that I looked good didn’t mean I didn’t put all that gear to good use. I huffed and I puffed and worked my way up to about six miles a day, almost every day. It was hard. And by hard I mean that I hated every single step. Every. Single. Step. And I did it anyway.

I did it for 18 months, even when it felt like everything inside was soon to be outside. Even when it was so hot I had to run at ten p.m. Even when I almost stepped on a snake. The only time it was even remotely pleasurable was six hours later when the sweat had been showered off and I was sprawled on the couch with a book and a Diet Pepsi.

I even participated in a 5k run. Just for the t-shirt, but still. It was nice to have a t-shirt for something you actually did, rather than buying it online and wearing it under false pretenses.

What finally stopped this self-inflicted misery happened at the end of that 5k. It didn’t matter that I finished so far to the rear that somebody in a wheelchair clipped me on her way to the finish line, or people offering water to runners had gone home before I got to any of them. It didn’t matter that my running partner was literally circling me as we ran and didn’t even break a sweat.

What happened was somebody took a picture. Of me. In all my red-faced, pissed-off, sweating glory. If I looked like that when I stopped running, what must I have looked like when I was actually doing it? Oh! The horror!

So I stopped. I had illustrated my ability to tolerate sweat and had the picture to prove it. Mission accomplished.

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3 Comments »

  1. Oh my lord, this is hilarious! This is Carol in all her witty glory. You made me smile, then grin, then laugh out loud. Oh sorry; I need to get with the program. LOL! Your big butt? Puh leeze! Sugar, next time we meet, I’ll turn around and let you SEE a big butt. Nicely done, my friend.

    Like

    Comment by gloriateague52 — February 26, 2012 @ 11:01 pm | Reply

  2. I always have to read these twice, one right after the other. It’s like when you’re listening to a comedian and you miss stuff because it’s so funny. I’m afraid I’ve missed something while I’m laughing. It’s always just as funny the second time through. Remind me to never dare you.

    Btw, 32 seconds of a really exciting Mazda commercial. What’s up with that? Where are the sausages I’ve become so fond of? Maybe Barbie ate them.

    Like

    Comment by Michelle — February 27, 2012 @ 12:40 am | Reply

  3. I ran for years in the Navy. I didn’t like one step. I liked stopping. I liked being “fit.” When I got out of the Navy in 1999, I said,” I am not running anywhere unless someone big is chasing me with a knife.”
    Since then, I’ve gained 40 lbs. and grunt a lot. I also eat ice cream and pasta every chance I get.
    Of course, I mentally beat myself up anytime I walk past a mirror or window reflection. Who is that old lady? I know I have seen her somewhere before—Some smarty-pants would say it is a love-hate relationship with myself. I say,”Ok with me.”

    Like

    Comment by lottie — February 27, 2012 @ 9:36 am | Reply


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