Thanks to Doctor Mama's Blog I tried today a new way of running. I tend to "run" (scare quotation marks seriously meant) about once or twice a week, but I always hate it, never want to go longer, dread doing the next day, etc. But Doctor Mama says to go slow, so slow that people will laugh. I like to make people laugh so I figure that I will give this a try.
So I woke up, a bit worse for wear because of the two glasses of wine too many and the dog vomit interruptions of REM sleep. It's OK, I think. There's nothing like a good sweat to get rid of a tiny hang over.
I have three cups of coffee, feed Zoe some applesauce and read the paper. I really read the paper. Stalling? I'd say so. But it's ten and it's getting hot and Cleo the dog hates running almost as much as I do, especially in the hot, so I get going.
I put on a pair of yoga pants, a bra and then one of those tank tops with a built-in bra thinking this is what Doctor Mama meant when she said "double bra."
I put Zoe in her stroller, let Cleo follow behind off-leash, and walk up the hill to warm up.
Once on flat-land, I put the iPod on the stroller because the yoga pants have no pockets. I turn the Pod ot shuffle and hear The Melvins, the Stooges, Fugazi, and Nirvana all in the first five minutes of "running." You'd think the hard core would make me lift those knees, but not so much. Instead, I keep stopping to skip the song. Then I stop to yell for Cleo who is now a whole block behind. Then I stop to pull up my pants which are riding down, down, down. So with one hand on the stroller and one on my pants, I tell Cleo to hurry and begin to run so slow. So slowly in fact that it turns out I am walking. I've been walking for some time. Perhaps even ambling.
We get to the park. Cleo thinks she wants to say hi to this cute (so not cute) Bloodhound so I wait for about half and hour for her to play. She approaches and runs away, approaches and runs away. She's a huge malumute/shepherd but she thinks she's a Chihuahua. Now that whatever elevated heart-rate I once had slips away, she finally sniffs the dog and we're off again. There had been a slight incline on the way to the park, but the way back slants down and I'm hopeful I can keep the bounce in my step to qualify as a "run."
I put Cleo on her leash this time to force her to keep up though this means half the time I'm pulled to a deadstop so she can smell the daffodils.
But foor one whole block, I'm running and bouncing all the way to the next street when Cleo darts for a squirrel, the leash is torn out of my hands, the iPod falls, I bend to pick up the iPod, the stroller rolls on its own, threatening to careen down the very steep L Street, I dive for the stroller, the pants lose whatever hold they once had and, as I push the stroller to safety, pick up the now-scratched iPod, scream for Cleo, and finally, finally pull up my pants, an jerk in a truck drives by to whistle, "Nice crack."
I drag Cleo the rest of the way--hand on leash, hand on stroller--my pants staying up thanks to the slow, slow walking of my feet.
I'm going shopping for proper shoes, bra, and, most importantly, pants or shorts with a string, tie, or other cinching devices. Plus, pockets for the iPod and a long, long leash for the very ass-dragging (though not ass-crackin') dog. I'd give up the dog, but she could stand a little heart-elevating exercise as much as I could.
I'll try again on Sunday & let you know how it goes.