In the Head of a Fat Runner

“I am worthy. I am smart. I am strong. I can do hard things.” These are the phrases I am repeating to myself before I pull out my little black book to start tracking my day’s activities.

It is the beginning of the week and I need to weigh myself; I am anxious. I am trying to recall every food that I ate in the previous week. I am hoping my food choices will not have caused a weight gain.

Staring at myself in the mirror, completely naked, I am disgusted. I cannot believe I am almost 40 years old and I have the body of a 70 year old grandma. “Why do I even own this mirror? My reflection makes me completely miserable.”

I take a deep breath and step on the scale. As it is calibrating my weight, my heart is racing, “I hate this.” I look down to see a weight loss 2.07 pounds. A sense of relief and disappointment hit me at the same time. “I am glad I did not gain anything, but it should have been a greater loss. Was that dang ice cream cone I had Friday night, worth it?”

I take one more look at myself before heading to the living room, “I am worthy. I am smart. I am strong. I can go hard things.”

As I am sitting on my couch putting my sneakers on all I can think is, “I am exhausted. I have not taken a day off from running in over a month.” I yell at myself, “Stop complaining, you need to run.”

My mind starts to layout today’s activities, “I am meeting with my mom’s attorney to get my portion of my so called ‘inheritance’. $20,000.00! That is what they think my grandmother’s sudden death is worth. What will that do? What? Will it help me buy a car? Or even better, I can put it in a bank account to earn .002% interest. I do not know why my mom even bothered to sue the nursing home. It is not like suing will bring my grandmother back. I would much rather get to hug her again. I miss the times I would sit with her and paint her nails, or sit on her bed while she watched cartoons. She is gone because the staff at her nursing home did not care enough to prevent her from smashing her head on their concrete floor. ‘Gross negligence!’ That is what the lawyer is calling it. If you ask me it was just laziness and greed. They overfill these nursing homes and then understaff them. She was not even in the facility for more than a day before she fell.” My heart is racing and tears are coming to my eyes, “Dammit! She was only in there because of her previous fall at home. Keeping a close eye on her became nearly impossible at for my mom alone. Before the nursing home she spent a few days in the hospital; that doctor decided would be safest for her to be in a nursing home,” the tears start to fall. My face is getting warm and extra red. “They can keep a closer eye on her in the nursing home," the exact words that came out of the doctor’s mouth before sending her on her way. “Yeah right, you mean they can get more money for the bed she will take up while she is there. Ugh! I now get to pick up a check that is supposed to make it all better.” I wipe down my face and start to head outside for my run.

I take a deep breath as I open my front door. I am hoping this anger I started to feel will help me push harder on my run. As I take the first steps toward my front yard I notice how brisk the air feels, but I know once I start to move the air will feel great. I turn up the volume on my head phones, “no point in listening to my hip-hop music unless it is going to kill my eardrums,” I start to move.

“I am worthy. I am smart. I am strong. I can do hard things.” As my feet hit the pavement I feel a sense of relief and determination. All you can do is take one step at a time. I notice my breathing is off. I need to catch my rhythm. I slow down a bit to work on controlling my breath.

I see the neighbor as he pulls his garbage cans to the front. I give a half smile because I do not want to be too friendly. I am convinced his wife has given be dirty looks in the past. I do not want him to think I am flirting. Being a single woman in a neighborhood with nothing but families leaves me a little self conscious. “I do not want them to think I want to steal their family. I watch a lot of true crime shows. I know how women think. One second you are saying hello, the next you are searching for your gun because some crazy lady wants to teach you how rude it is to talk to their husband.”

I keep moving forward and my breathing has evened out; I am no longer feeling like I need an oxygen tank. I start thinking about how I am going to face my mother at the lawyer’s office. It has been a few months since I have spoken to her. We got into an argument about how she thinks I made up the fact that her husband asked me to give him a hand job at 9 years old. “I am damn near 40 years old, why would I make that up? Worst of all, why would she think I made it up?” Tears again start to come to my eyes. This time it is not anger that is making me cry it is disappointment. I am embarrassed that someone is going to see me crying, but I can’t stop, “I would never take away someone’s truth to make myself feel better. I thought moms are supposed to protect. He’s dead, it is not like he can deny it.” I quickly wipe my face with my green college sweatshirt, hoping there wasn’t anyone who noticed the crazy lady crying while running.

I start to pick up my pace hoping that that will force me to focus on my run rather than my freaking wonderful life. I feel a soreness in my right knee. I stop for a second to pull my leg back hoping if I stretch a little it will loosed up and won’t bother me for the rest of the run. I start to run again. I see cars drive by and I am so concerned that they will be making fun of the fat chick running. “I am working on it. Hopefully in a year I will not be the fat chick running. Who am I kidding? I have been saying this for years now. You will always be the fat chick, but at least you workout; you are not a lazy fat chick.”

I finally make it back home and I log my run into my little black book “3.5 miles at an average of 13.00 minutes a mile.” Many people might think that is slow but, for a girl who weighs 250 pounds, that is a pretty good pace. I head over to my full length mirror.

I look at myself again. I stare at my bright red face. There is sweat dripping down my neck and back and my hair looks like I had five preschoolers try to style it. As I look at myself I notice this time I am not grossed out by my reflection. I see a different version of myself; I am proud of myself. “ I am worthy. I am smart. I am strong. I can freaking do hard things”