Like A Pony

At the risk of sounding like a total pisher: I finally decided to get some exercise yesterday.
I like playing happy, laughing games like badminton or Captain's Ball as much as the next girl but concerted, planned, actual fitness? No, thank you.

In light of an alarmingly expanding waistline though, I finally decided to chuck my principles down the chute and go for a RUN. Yes, a run. I mean, who runs?! For one, it is the most banal sport since the beginning of time, surpassed in stupidity only by soccer. You're not actually going anywhere, or playing anything, you're just moving your legs like pistons and subjecting yourself to bone-crunching impact for no reason other than to be abjectly bored and sweaty. Not my idea of a weekend, really.

But BS had me well and truly convinced that we needed to lose the flab, so I put on my hot pink shorts and we went off to the beach. Considering that I loathe jogging and haven't actually moved at a quicker pace than a smart trot since the Triassic period, I knew it wasn't going to bode well for me. We strolled to the walking track by the sea, then I put in my earphones, turned up The Who, and confidently went poncing off into the ether.

For the first twenty seconds or so, I couldn't stop giggling at the absurdity of me going running. Then I tried to be one with the road, concentrate on the sound of my footsteps, my music, the wash of the waves, the in and out swoosh of my breath. I dug deep and reached for the liberation and exhilaration that all marathon runners find when they push their bodies to physical perfection.

In 200 metres, I wanted to smack marathon runners, hard. I was in a shitload of physical pain - cramping and protesting muscles, stabbing pains in my ribcage and chest. For one, people with breast sizes bigger than a B cup really shouldn't be bouncing around in public. It just doesn't feel polite.

For another, it fucking hurts. I kept going, swinging my numb arms like some lolloping orang utan, puffing desperately for air. Eventually (another 200 metres later, perhaps) I was forced to slow down while BS loped rangily into the distance. I half-ran, half-walked to stop myself from dying and everytime BS turned his head to look for me, I, refusing to appear like an airless fish in front of him, would duck speedily behind a tree or shrub, which rendered me more breathless in turn.

Nothing but my pride kept me going for another kilometre or so and when I finally caught up with BS who had slown to a walk, I managed to gather my composure and regain my breath. The rest of the sojourn wasn't half bad, actually. We walked to the end of the paved road in the dimming light, then turned and brisked walked back to where we started, listening to our music and communicating only via hand signals all the way. It was fun, racing each other like frisking lambs, then dropping to a walk when we got tired. I was almost over the agony of the actual jog.

Almost.

To say I woke up in pain this morning would be a gross understatement. The last time I was in so much pain was when a 1000-pound horse nearly rode off with me into the sunset and I hung grimly on to its mane with every muscle in my body. That was over a year ago, coincidentally also the last time I exercised. I feel good mentally, knowing that I got out and did something, but um, I still hate running and all the sports bra clad jocks that do it. Runners high, my overgrown arse.

To that end, I was intending to suggest a more game-y activity the next time, that is, until I came in to work. As I was proudly declaring my sporty weekend to my colleagues, Estelle joined in the conversation enthusiastically with: "You should try belly-dancing. It's very flattering for people of your size."

Before my jaw could hit the floor, she went blithely on with: "Besides, the fatter you are, the better it looks!"

Uh-huh.

Guess I'm going to have to take another run tonight after all.