I find that it is helpful to set very low expectations for myself, when it comes to any sort of physical exercise. I find that I should take my expectations, and then I should reduce them, and reduce them still. When asked what I hoped to get out of this running business, I answered that I wanted not to die. Oh, no, don't misunderstand, I didn't want to live longer, I wanted not to die. While running.
I went to the Running Room tonight. Now, the Running Room, much like Lulu Lemon, is a place, that well, scares the Dickens out of me. It is a foreign land. I do not speak their language. I do not know their customs. Indeed, these places, they are filled with a strange and foreign people, who need to eat more ice cream and cheesecake.
This land is full of clothing that is bright and reflective. In fact, in the absence of any evidence that their fashion designer is a peanut-starved chimp, I must assume that the goal of their clothing is to be, umm, visible. Now, I don't know about you, but I have never, even in the neon 90's, bought a jacket because it was screaming green, and had reflective tape across my butt. I am trying to camouflage the breadth of my butt, and there they go, trying to give passing motorists, if not a target, a heck of a fright.
I braved this foreign land, and I went to the back wall. Well, actually, the first time I went in, I got stopped at the front door and had to ask this pimply-faced young boy where the sports bra's were. Yes, that's right, I asked a 17 year old about women's underwear. (And tragically for him, I don't think he's going home to fantasize about me tonight) He pointed. To the back of the store. At this point I had 2 choices. No one, not even you dear readers, would have faulted me for refusing to push my way through all the runners, sitting on benches (why weren't they out running any way?) to get to the women's underwear section, conveniently located behind the running video that was playing. (And how does watching a video count as exercise anyway?) I did the sensible thing, and went for a cup of coffee.
I came back half an hour later, as the runners were leaving (Is there a polite company sort of expression for that many masochists in one place?). I wandered back in, went to the back, and this very charming woman came to assist me. She asked me what I was looking for. (Oh, how I longed to tell her the microfiber, fully breathable thong). I had 2 criterion (and my male readers are forgiven for bowing out now). Criteria one was containment in one container (holding my assets in one bra. I didn't want to, say, purchase one for each side.) Criteria 2 was constrain (the operative definition was no movement. Of any kind)
I have Fiona. Seriously. I have a sports bra, and her name (I'm not making this stuff up) is on the tag, and that name is Fiona. My assets are contained and constrained. By something named Fiona. I've always thought of Fiona as a name for a tall, slender, lithe Irish girl. But no, Fiona is some sort of industrial German Frau with no dress sense.
About an hour ago, Fiona and I went running. Run 60 seconds, walk 90. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. 8 times. She held up (that's totally a pun) her end of the run, and I held up mine.
And like I said at the top of this, I had low expectations. I wanted not to die. I am pleased to report, that after shelling out $112, (including $60 for my bosom buddy, Fiona) I am not dead.
Seems a promising start, that.