Friday, October 2, 2009

Run, Forrest, Run!

I run. It is not because I want to. It is not because I like it. I run not because I was born an athlete with races to win and personal records to set. I run because I splashed down squarely into a gene pool worthy of a carnival side show freak. Simply breathing in the heavenly fumes emanating from the Cinnabon store at the mall will add three inches to my waist. I get no “runner’s high” from enduring eight miles of hills and over-protective dogs with a vendetta against all moving objects. No, I run for the sake of my butt. And by that, I mean the size of my butt…and by that, I mean that if I don’t run, my butt will be the size of a Volkswagon Beetle.

The mandatory nature of my running encourages me hate other people. You are quite possibly among the lucky members of my I Hate Skinny People club. I say “lucky” because my hate is truly borne from envy. If you are one of those people who have maintained an acceptable weight while adhering to a steady diet of cheeseburgers, french fries and cold beer, then yes, I hate you. Welcome to the club, and help yourself to the sausage balls and cheesecake.

I don’t even experience remorse from harboring these ill feelings. I hate you because while I’m eating a plain turkey sandwich or another piece of grilled chicken, I am forced to watch you eat Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a meat lover’s pizza. You plop your satisfied, skinny rear end on the sofa with your pork rinds or lounge by the pool drinking a Mountain Dew as I labor through a sweaty, difficult run to keep myself from having to shop in the husky girls section. You complain about how tired you are and I think, “Oh yeah, playing on Facebook or watching ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ is tough. You should take a break.”

The odds are stacked against me. You only need to look through my family photo album to confirm this truth. I hail from a long line of hearty eaters and plus-sized Southern cooks. But the chunk stops here, folks. Gone are the Sunday dinners of fried chicken, fried okra and home made biscuits with butter. I no longer partake in decadent fudge, gooey macaroni and cheese, or country-style steak. If I plan to keep my jean size in the single digits, then seedless grapes and a breath of fresh air will have to do.

Whenever I start missing onion rings or hot fudge sundaes, I just keep telling myself that there is no food that tastes as good as being thin feels. And do you know what Myself has the nerve to scream back at me? “You liar!” I just nod my head in agreement as I solemnly lace up my sneakers.

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