I recently had an upsetting experience in a GAP changing room. We've all had them. Fluorescent lights and underwear chosen in the dark at 6am (when not anticipating later standing in it before an unforgiving mirror) also my ballet pumps, which I had to take off to try on trousers, smelt horrible which didn't help me not feel disgusting. It's not a new experience, but for some reason it was more upsetting than usual. I poked and prodded at myself, forgetting entirely the reason I'd declothed myself in a changing room in the first place. I'm more or less the same weight I've always been, I thought, my clothes aren't tighter than usual, but this and that certainly seem squishier.
Anyway. I'm recounting this troubling experience not to expound on body woes but to give explanation as to what came next.
I paid money and signed up for a 4 mile run one month from now.
All you 'runners', the ones for whom 4 miles is a pitiful distance, stop scoffing. This is a big deal, and I shall tell you why. I am not a runner. I'm not an anythinger when it comes to movement and increased heart-rate. I'm more of a sitter, a curl-up-on-the-couch-er, a sleeper-inner. I don't like feeling sweaty. I don't like being out of breath. I don't like anything that could be called 'burn'. I don't like exercise. My single greatest athletic achievement to date is holding the 800 meter record for girls. In primary school. When I was nine. I basically haven't run since then. I've tried to run - I've tried to exercise - but I always get bored and tired and find infinite excuses why doing it a second time is a bad idea.
So in signing up to this race I sought to break the pattern of my lifetime. Because there's one thing I fear more than increased heart rate discomfort, and that's humiliation. And people go to watch this race. Granted I did sign up for it on condition that Jeremy runs with me and I ascertained that some people 'run' it slower than I could walk it, so chances of me coming in last are slim, but either way in signing up to do this I basically forced myself to exercise because I do not wish to embarrass myself.
And so far the plan has been working. Jeremy's been helping me - running on his own when he needs to actually train and running with me when I do. His most successful tactic has so far been lying to me as to how far we've gone and how far we've got to go. I know his game, but it's easier to delude myself anyway so I ignore his untrustworthiness. I've already, in the space of a couple of weeks, got myself up to running 4 miles (albeit very very slowly) and we're now working on improving pace, which isn't something I care a whole lot about. When it's going well I imagine being a person who talks about being in the zone (I'm not sure I've ever glimpsed a zone), of applying an exercise verb to myself as a noun, of being able to stand in a GAP changing room and not disavow eating for the rest of time. When it's going badly I want to stamp my feet, cry and give up.
It feels a lot like when Jeremy taught me to drive. Or attempted to help with my statistics homework. But despite that, I seem to have found a solution to my nonexistent will power. I married someone to willpower for me.
