When does the walking without pain end? Is that too much to hope for? Should I hope to be able to put myself in a chair without searing hamstrings?
Is it supposed to hurt this much? Every time?
Maybe I’m being a little (over) dramatic. Just a little. Okay, not at all.
I’m still in quite a bit of agony from Tuesday. Damn DOMS. (That would be, Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness) (Aren’t I just a fountain of information?)
Because I’m wrecked…I’m going to cut to the chase.
Torture device du jour: the south lawn.
Let’s imagine a cool, spring night. Let’s imagine a south-facing 80 x 60 piece of turf. Not grass…turf. So it is unnaturally green for the northern plains in March.
Now imagine 12 mildly overweight to obese Fat Camp participants and their perfect postured trainer all in a line, walking out to the turf.
I would be the one, near the back, bitching about having to go outside and get my “inside only” shoes a little scuffed.
Turns out, all my fat camp nightmares came true.
The perimeter of the turf has an 8 foot wrought iron fence. There is a steep drop off to the street below so it appears that we are on an island. Or on a stage. Let’s call it a stage.
We walk. In a line. With hand weights, curling. And pressing. And stretching. Walking close to the fence. Nearly marching. We start to spread out. I complain (loudly) about the cool breeze and my lack of proper clothing. (In my defense, I was in a tank top and shorts. It’s like the rain forest in that cardio room at night.)
My stride, if you have ever walked next to me, is short. I call it the curse of the stubby legs. It’s genetic, I’m just sure of it. But even when I am gaining some good ground, it’s because I am moving my legs faster and not stepping out further. If that makes any sense. I can barely get one size 8 in front of the other size 8.
Part of me is blaming my sore quads but part of me is absolutely positive that I just walk slow.
I am behind. Way behind. At least a lap behind. I’m on par with a post menopausal woman who has a bad hip and a chronically low heart rate.
After a half-dozen laps, Molly sets up line sprints. She makes the turf look roughly like a football field. We start at one end, run to the first line and do 10 push ups. Then run back to start. Run to the second line and do 10 push ups. Repeat. 8 times.
Again, with the last one done.
Look, I’m not all THAT out of shape. But this kind of oneness with nature (sort of…it is turf after all) does nothing for my self-esteem. At least on the treadmill, I can make the appearance of keeping up.
But here’s the real problem: I am twelve years old again. And Mr. Sass, the PE teacher in 7th grade is timing us for the one mile portion of our physical testing. So we do laps around the city park which is where the “Hoods” went to smoke and fight after school. And before school. (Sidenote: I was neither “prep” nor “hood”. I was, by and large, invisible.) Four laps equalled one mile. And the far side of the park was far enough to not hear him bellowing about running and not walking. And we all know that running melts Aqua Net.
My short stride and my giant (even for 7th grade) boobs have kept me from being a competitor. Ever. I am the mouthy fat kid who crosses the finish line after everyone else has had a drink and is on to something else.
Except, back then, I wasn’t fat. I thought I was fat. But I most definitely was not. I see pictures of me as a 12-year-old and I want to take myself for a slow walk and tell myself that I was beautiful and able and that running will never melt Aqua net. Nothing does.
So, yeah, I half assed it. I am tired. And sore. And cranky because I am 35 today. And I got tons of birthday wishes and texts and calls. And I don’t want for anything other than a night of sleep. Or two.
It would be nice, too, if I didn’t come in dead ass last. It wasn’t a race. But being outside, for me, was nothing to be proud of.