And So It Goes

Oh Jesus, please let this running at lunch thing get better. Each day I feel as if I will die and fall to the concrete thinking this was the last thing I did? Run!! Not drink myself into alcohol induced oblivion? But it continues. I know with time this desperation at the difficulty of said running will be laughed at, but it’s so hard this time around. Yes, likely due to the thirty pounds of baby weight still to lose and the fact that my legs had an eight week hiatus from any sort of meaningful work. But dear God, let this get better. I don’t’ want to be that fat lady eating bon bons on the MUNI and taking up two seats with my ass. Of course, if that was me, I would have to change my name. Because in my fat person fantasy world, her name is Devereaux Jane Dawson, DJ to her friends. Which she has over often because she needs help scrubbing between her many flesh rolls, luring them with her homemade goodies of tarts and fried chicken. She has a southern accent, of course. Okay, I guess I did watch too much Paula Deen on my maternity leave, but can’t you all just see it? DJ Dawson, her bon bons, her hair polished and coifed, her dimpled chins laughing with delight. Not this Cassie McCall, huffing and heaving her way up the Embarcadero with a forehead scarlet from perspiration and an overwhelming need to vomit. But I can do it!! I will survive, and not go the bon bon way of happiness. Hopefully these running high endorphins, which have been elusive thus far, will emerge and I will be giddy with exercising excitement. I just hope it is soon.