Ok so after the disappointment of being no closer to being comfortable in the high wasted denim shorts I somewhat upped my game this morning…I went for a run… (I’m not entirely sure run is the right description but we’ll go with it anyway). Yes, a run. Half eight in the morning I was up and in my trainers thinking I look like something out of a sports advert (I’m the furthest thing in the world) braving the freezing winds and the danger of rain.
Now I’m lucky enough to have been born with a bum Beyoncé would be proud of and a chest that isn’t exactly subtle. All of this on a four foot something frame makes running more of a chore than it needs to be, after the five minute fiasco of strapping my boobs into the bright pink sports bra its the constant trial of desperately trying to keep my joggers up.
If you’ve seen “Friends” and the episode showing Phebe running….that’s me on a good day. Despite all this I do generally enjoy the whole experience (let’s face it it is an experience), it’s like at that time of the morning everyone is ridiculously friendly. You cannot pass anyone without a “hello” or “good morning”, now don’t get me wrong this is all well and good but when you’ve just run two and a bit miles without hair and makeup the last thing you want is to look anyone in the face or see someone you know.
Along with the failing joggers and the hurricane winds apparently I’m allergic to myself. Within about ten minutes of setting my pace the niggling itching in my thighs and back starts. (I Googled it and it’s apparently my body releasing hystermine or something to that effect). Brilliant. This is why I stick to aerobics.
Just after half a mile on my route I pass over a bridge crossing a busy motorway, this is fine on the journey out as I can sprint across that thing looking like a pro, it’s on the way back that it becomes an issue. Due to my own pride and vanity I feel like whenever I am upon this bridge I am obliged to look like I’m Paula Radcliffe to the constant traffic underneath, which is all well and good the first time I cross it, it’s the second time that hurts.
The second time is when I’m dripping in sweat (attractive I know) and barley able to walk anymore let alone run, but still I find myself having to fly across that bloody bridge like I feel nothing but joy. The upside of this is knowing that im only half a mile away from home (only…). Gliding across, glancing at the cars below (because their obviously looking) I’m passed by a group of cyclists and I get a sudden rush of loathing course through me. I have nothing against cyclists but when you’ve just run a fair distance and all you want is a green tea you can see where I’m coming from. This loathing conjures up some untapped energy from somewhere inside me and in a moment I’m trying to subtlety keep up with the said bike riders, it lasted all of about twelve steps.
Finally the crumpled mess I have turned into reaches home. Sweating, out of breath and hair that looks like one massive dreadlock, I’m then greeted by the postman (brilliant) with a parcel (my ukulele…don’t worry there’s a post about this to come). Of all the times to come face to face with a complete stranger… But it’s done. I have been for a run in order not to have an elusive pair of shorts I can never quite fit into. Tomorrow I will do the same. I will be in those high wasted denim shorts by summer.