ready, ready, ready, ready. ready to run.

So let me tell you a little story:

Before I met boyfriend I was running and doing pilates and jump roping, basically anything to fill the time between sleep and work (long story, but I wasn't in school at the time). I was in really good shape and I had been training for a 5k (I had picked out the perfect race, it was supposed to take place on my birthday in downtown Des Moines). It was sponsored by a beer company (Bud Light, Miller Light perhaps?) and the finish line led directly to the entrance of my favorite bar in town.

Hey, I was 21 at the time. My priorities were different then. Judge me.

But then I got sick, first it was strep that didn't go away for almost three weeks. Then, after insisting my way through the lobby at my doctor's office, I was finally seen by a different physician who gave me a shot of steroids and immediately set me up with an ENT specialist. Then, I had an emergency tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy. And thennnn, I got mono.

Mono is a great diet, by the way. If it wasn't for the risk of death and the general feeling of shittiness, I would do that again in a heartbeat.

I recovered by falling into the arms of a fellow food addict. Three and a half years later (and well over a combined 100 pounds gained), we're both in serious health trouble.



I think about all the things I want for myself when I finally manage to drop all the weight, and the only thing that comes to mind is an incident that happened last summer: It was the day I was diagnosed with idiopathic intracranial hypertension (say that five times fast). It was a Monday. I specifically remember wearing the drawstring khaki shorts I had just purchased from Old Navy with a black t-shirt and flip flops thinking that it was the best summer outfit I owned. I was being shuffled around the hospital, from neurology to radiology and back with much confusion. The radiology technician had to check my chart several times and she even went so far as to ask me twice how much I weighed.

Totally embarrassed.

Even worse: I came to find out that the purpose for this was that the MRI machine had a weight limit. I was dangerously close to that limit.

I spent half an hour in the MRI listening to bad pop music wondering what would happen if I moved too quickly, or if took in so much air that my body would start retaining weight in the form of oxygen and put me even closer to the weight limit. I also seriously regretted wearing shorts, wondering if the technicians were commenting on my cellulite from behind the one-sided mirror.

It. Was. Horrifying.

With my recent weight loss I've put almost 90 pounds between me and the MRI weight limit so I know beyond a doubt that my first horrifying experience with the MRI would not be repeated in the future. Because I'm better than that.

But as long as we're speaking honestly, I have to admit that I've encountered a 4-month slump. I've been stuck in the same 5 pound weight range since before Christmas and I honestly have no idea where to go from here.

Correction: had no idea where to go from here.

I knew going in that the elliptical would only take me so far. I'm proud of the work I've done, I've put on a crazy amount of muscle, my cardio endurance is out of this world, and I learned that I really like exercising. Needless to say, I am insanely proud of myself. But I knew eventually I would plateau and I would be forced to find another activity to keep me motivated and keep me skinny. Enter the treadmill.

Due to an unfortunate accident during physical therapy when I was rehabbing a knee injury at age 15, I have an unnatural fear of treadmills. And despite the fact that Baby Jesus has gifted the entire state of Iowa with history's mildest winter EVER, I'm not quite ready to tackle the beast known as outdoor running. Over the last four days I have been acquainting myself with the treadmill. Just a few steps at first, getting used to the motion of having a belt drag me along. In my first attempts, I intended to run half a mile but I only managed 0.3 in 5:00 (yes, that means I'm running a 16:40 mile... JUDGE ME).

BUT YESTERDAY...

Yesterday, OH MY GOD. I got to 0.3 without any trouble. So I took it to 0.5, no biggie. I said to myself, "Oh, how about ten minutes?" And then I did twelve. At twelve minutes, I said "oh fuck it" and ran the whole damn mile. It took me 16:42, BUT I FUCKIN' DID IT. Yes, that's totally deserving of an F-bomb.

Truth is, I could have run more, but 2pm breakfast wasn't agreeing with 3pm gym time so I opted for the safe route and avoided potential sickness and finished the rest of my workout on the elliptical. 1.5 miles in I realized how much of challenge I was NOT getting on the elliptical (as compared to RUNNING A FREAKING MILE) so I went up a level in resistance. My ass is certainly sore today, but I MISSED this.

I realized last night that the problems with my workout and the reason for my 4-month slump was that I wasn't pushing myself hard enough. I forgot that it's supposed to be uncomfortable sometimes. I forgot how great the triumphs felt, I forgot that you don't get triumphs like that without a little pain.

The rest of the night I could not get my mind of running. I wanted to do it again! There were several occasions last night that seriously tempted me to go back to the gym and run some more. In the end, I opted not to, and my outer thighs are thanking me today.

But for serious, I CAN'T WAIT TO RUN TODAY.