Running Scared.

“Come on! Two more! You can do THIS!!”

Right now, the only thing saving my “team” from the kettle bell gloating at my misery is the undeniable fact that the arms that were screaming only moments ago have now stopped working altogether and I am candidly assessing whether I will make it home or if I will be spending the night nose to nose with the black rubberized flooring that is filled with the sweat of hapless souls like me in search of new beginnings and a new arse.

Even if I could get back up, I am not sure I want to.

There is a very high probability that my burpees are eerily reminiscent of the form displayed by little brown spider that just scuttled by. My self-esteem might be better off perpetually prone and below the radar.

For years, my body has ridden a roller coaster of extremes. Five days before my husband went to sleep and never woke up I ran my first 13.1, a feat only possible with two children under the age of four because he made it so. That day, for the first time in my life, I felt confident in the strength of my body.

Lacing up my Nikes was the only thing that wasn’t theirs or his or ours. It was mine. For those brief moments, the hectic and harried world and the demands of each day melted away in the dark night and the sound of my footsteps.

13 days later, 20 pounds had vanished and the weight of a lifetime was firmly settled deep in between my shoulders. I wasn’t just weak. I was physically and emotionally decimated. I ran on the fumes of my own fog and when the fog lifted I ran on the anger it left behind. I didn’t eat and when I did it was an item snatched in between all of the things that I and I alone had to get done. Wine to sleep, coffee to wake and no water in between. And with a talent only children possess, their constant demands for my attention eroded what little attention I gave to myself.

Our little world found a new calm and I found myself lacing up again. But what was once mine was now an exercise in physical, emotional and financial ROI.

Time – errands – work – housework – quality time with children – cost for childcare = run time

It wasn’t just the looseness of my jeans that I missed. It was freedom and confidence and the belief that I would someday be loved not for my BMI and the relative elasticity of my breasts that I had lost. I had lost faith in myself and my experiences with the opposite sex are running alarming close to proving that it really is my BMI and the relatively elasticity of my breasts that matters. And the net sum is that I no longer feel pretty or wanted or confident or trusting. Which brings me back to the here and now.

Just two more and I can sink into a steaming hot bath and do my own WOD.

Pop. Pour. Repeat.