Once again, miracle of all miracles, I went running today. And walking. Because I'm so very chubby now that my knees have instructed me to be careful out there on those hills. And my lungs have chimed in their requests too.
Seems my body parts are willing to cooperate with my brain's instructions to run up the hills, so long as I'm careful and don't push them too much.
Funny body. Weird how it's changing. Weirder yet that I'm starting to recognize it as the fat-ish body again. Dang it. It was so cute and hot for a couple years there, between the babies and pre-menopause. I even have pictures to prove it.
Now it's back to it's recognizable chubby self.
"But it doesn't have to be this way," says the brain. "Remember all those athletes you saw this weekend? The ones at that party, who were eating and drinking as if time and distance didn't matter? Those little waif women who filled their plates twice and ate Hans' cake after dinner?"
Oh yes. I say. I remember them. I stood and watched them. And talked to them. And, if I recall, listened to them sigh as they said they weren't looking forward to their 9 mile run tomorrow after all this yummy fun.
9 miles. Nine.
That's 3 times more than I usually run.
When I run.
If I run.
But I bet if I ran 9 miles on a Saturday, I could eat and drink lovely things like homemade cake from Hans, the amazing retired baker of Hans' restaurant in Bend. I bet I could eat all the good things I want and not worry so much about the chubs coming to take over my knees and lungs and good looks.
Alas. I'll need to lose some chub before my body will even entertain the 9 mile idea. My best distance is 6 miles I think.
It's a physics thing, I hear. Something about every 5 pounds of fat stressing your joints as much as an elephant standing on the head of a pin. Or something.
It's so complicated. It makes me tired just thinking about it.
Guess I'll go to bed and try again tomorrow.