An on-going collection of whatever I choose to put down from my life as I struggle past the drowsiness of my current state.
It was somewhat of an odd experience.
Something like a carnival taking place in Antarctica.
I, under my own power, decided to take my lazy ass outside and run around. But don't think for a moment that I didn't prepare for it. Oh, no. You can't just go outside unprepared. You have to make sure you're ready.
Now, ready for me will be different than ready for you.
Some people, I like to call them "unusuals," can simply walk outside without any clothes on and start running around the neighborhood before they're eventually arrested for indecent exposure. If they're pretty enough, someone will bail them out in a hurry. Out of the goodness of their hearts. No carnivorous desires lie in wait.
Some people, I like to call them "usuals," can slip on some light, loose clothing and some running shoes, and skedaddle out of their three bedroom apartment like they're a bullet bill shot from an angry volcano.
Some people, I like to call them "sporkies," can go outside naked once, then never have the confidence nor the drive to do it ever again.
But they don't matter. This story is about me and my struggles. Here's the thing: I've never been a big outdoorsy person. What makes me happy is sitting inside in the air conditioning, listening to the soundtracks of my childhood. Playing along with the virtual reality of my mind's capable thinking and exploiting my brain's expenditure of dopamine. That last sentence was code for masturbation.
I had planned it since the night before. I was gonna run. I was gonna run around and be fit. Be active. Be a new me. A shiny me. A me that didn't look like it wanted to dip children in fry batter and chomp their little, delicious toes off.
But how? Where? Who? What? Would I run through people's yards? For how long would I run? To what extent should I run? Should I go full-sprint, or should I take it easy? Does speed even matter? Will thirty minutes of walking help me more than five minutes of horse galloping? What if people give me weird looks? What if they start singing "Run, fatboy, run!?" I wouldn't just take it. I have every right as a free American to beat the shit out of haters. I'm trying to improve my standard of living and you're making me feel like I'll never pull through with the temptation of passing by seven fast food chains every three feet while commercials for Pepsi blare through my Pandora feed. Fuck you.
And my attire! What will I wear? I can't go running around in casual clothing. I'll look like an idiot, smell like an idiot, and probably eat like an idiot out of embarrassment. What I need is a sweat-absorbent tee. And some sport shorts. Y'know, the type of shorts pro athletes wear when they train in the off-season or whatever. Hell, maybe if I wear what the athletes wear, I'll become like the athletes! It makes perfect sense! If you'll excuse me, I have to research every fiber of Michael Jordan's life and career.
But I'm getting off-track. Should I wear a headband? That's usually only for game time. I guess I'll skip that. Oh! Underwear! What kind of underwear should I use? Briefs? Boxers? Boxer-briefs? Thongs, g-strings? Loin cloths? Should I just go commando? Well, with shorts, I risk my little pecker peeking over the peephole in the front. But in the interest of running, would it be better? No, no! More clothes equals more weight! My God! I've been looking at it all wrong. It's decided: I'm going to wear seven heavy coats and three pairs of cargo pants. With a disco ball keychain. Genuine size.
When do I stop running? They say sixty minutes of it is good, but are those sixty minutes consecutive? I can't run for sixty minutes straight. I'm fat. Will that downtime stop the clock? I can run for maybe forty seconds. Exactly how long is this whole thing gonna take? If I run for forty seconds, slow down for a minute, then keep repeating the process, I'll be on my feet for a staggering two hours and thirty-four minutes! At that rate, it isn't even worth it. This mountain cannot be reached by mere chubbyweights. I may as well just do 13,000 jumping jacks.
But in the end, I decided to put that all aside. All of the doubt, the worries, the snippy sarcasm. Everything. Because I want to live healthier. I want to live past thirty-five. So, in the interest of me, the people I love, and mostly me, I went out and did some running around. By the end of it, I was exhausted. My body felt like I was put through one of Willy Wonka's contraptions. Just aching pain, especially around my stomach, throat, and feet. But I don't regret it. It was exhilarating, knowing that I can do the things I want to do if I just put my mind to it. After a life of complacency and hand-holding, doing something by my own free will in itself is as good a reward as the act of running.
I celebrated with pasta. And then my ma ordered a pizza. And then she made toffee bars.
I will never not be fat.