The Accidental Slut Run

Another Wednesday, another running day.

It’s been 2 weeks since I’ve gotten off my ass and started running again. I’m still not very good at it but I was actually looking forward to hitting the pavement this morning. Monday’s attempt at a run was awful. I had to run later in the day and by the time I was able to go, it was 97 degrees out and I forgot my hair tie. I turned around halfway. Mission aborted.

Today I was gonna rock it. Although It’s not easy to digest that I’m using my “me time” for something physical when I’d prefer to be watching crappy TV or reading a good book, it has to be done. I have to do something. Running it is.

Now I’m rocking a new playlist, a new pair of kicks and holding my head up high. The baby and I hit the main road outside my development with a nice breeze and the Florida sun shining in the sky as we go.

5 minutes in and I’m surprised at how good I feel… maybe my body has resigned itself to the fact that the brain is the boss here. You hear that old, tired, body? I run the show! Mind over fat! A lawn truck drives by and the occupants whistle and honk. Shit, I actually look good doing this? Me? I can’t even process that idea as Adam Levine croons in my headphones.

So this is what doing running right feels like? I make a mental note to text one of my crazy marathon friends when I get back home. She’s gonna be so proud of me. Hell, I’m so proud of me. Now I can almost feel the skip in my step. I’m not a runner, I’m a freaking supermodel. Take that, self-deprecating me!

It’s around the 11 minute mark of my 30 minute workout that the second catcall comes, this time from some old guys in a white van. What? I must look phenomenal today. Maybe it’s because of that full moon, maybe it’s because I’ve lost 5 pounds? Who knows? Who cares? Just enjoy this feeling knowing disgusting old men find you wanton. Actually, that’s a bit of a creepy thought but whatever, just keep running.

At the halfway mark I see the baby is asleep. Good baby, the perfect running buddy. I’m making a mental checklist of the things I’ll need for dinner and this time, a County garbage truck honks and waves. Okay, something is up. I look down… nope, no nipples showing, running skirt looks okay… hmmm, maybe the Rosie the Riveter look is back in. Eat that Betty Boop! I’m not usually the person who relies on the compliments of others but when you’re not afraid for your safety, a honk during a workout can feel pretty good for your self-esteem. Although… 3 honks in one day? That’s a bit over the top? I ignore that thought and continue on… almost done, 5 more minutes.

I’m almost home, basking in the glory of a really good run and some very enamored spectators when I hear another whistle… this time from a neighbor I know…

“Hey, good run?”

{taking off my headphones} Yeah, one of the best. {I’m smiling ear to ear}

“Yeah… Ummm…”

{He looks uncomfortable, why does he look so uncomfortable?}

“Your skirt is tucked into your shorts.”

That’s when I turn around to see the reason behind my popularity this morning.

My behind.

My cute little black running skirt has been tucked into the attached purple shorts for 30 minutes!

While I was running! In public! In my hometown! With my baby!

Am I surprised? Nope, not one bit.

Whatever. That was the best I felt while working out in a long while. Maybe I’ll invest in some of those little running shorts that the Olympians wear.

I’m sure to get some super honks then.

 

Running Away and Joining The Circus

The circus always freaked me out inside. On the outside I was fine.  “Yay, circus… as long as I can eat peanuts.” But not on the inside. My inside was all “Shit, the damn circus.”

It wasn’t the clowns. Everyone is always bitching about the clowns. I have no beef with clowns. Mimes, yes. Mimes are super freaky. Why are you in a box? Why are you holding a flower but everything else is expressed though gestures and accompanied by music? Yikes. Clowns, whatever. Unless we are talking about the clown from It, and I don’t think we are.

The circus freaked me out for many reasons. The complete “freak show” of it all was a big part of it, and I’m not talking the “bearded lady” or the “tattooed man”… that was never part of the circus I grew up with. Now that I live in Florida that is the crazy shit you see at the fair. I’d never been to a fair in New York. The fair is a completely different post. The freak show part of the circus (for me) was that it was a stage show, not like Shakespeare in the Park or My Fair Lady, those are actual stage shows; but that it had all of these animals and performers looking like they belonged somewhere else. I cannot think of a single thing stranger than seeing an elephant in the same place I have seen a hockey game. That’s just fucking ridiculous. I’m not even a huge animal rights advocate but at 7 years old, when my grandmother took me to the circus, I knew it didn’t fit.

As a Stay-At-Home-Mom I’m with my kids all day, everyday.

ALL DAY, EVERYDAY.

If you’re not a Stay-At-Home-Parent just let that resonate a little bit. Let it marinate in your brain until you feel it. Do you feel it? Good. If you are at home, like me, know this, I FEEL YOU!

On Sunday my husband doesn’t work, and under normal circumstances I usually get some sort of reprieve from my band of merry men. I don’t get mani’s or pedi’s or massages or facials. Usually I just leave the house for an hour. 60 minutes where I don’t have to do shit for anyone else. That is 1 hour for me out of the 168 for everyone else. Boom.

Until recently.

Hubby has been coaching a soccer team and they have had tournaments on Sunday for the last couple weeks.

Today was the first Sunday Hubby had been home in a long while.

I NEEDED A BREAK.

As I grabbed my purse and keys to “go to the store” I said.. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay? I’m gonna take my sweet ass time.” He smiled and nodded as I sprinted out the door like a teenager heading to a kegger.

As I put the key in the ignition I actually thought of just GOING…

Driving… driving away… far, far, away… Going to Key West… Or Miami… or joining the circus.

And that, my friends, THAT, is how batshit fucking crazy these kids can make you. They can drive you to the brink. Screw that, they can push you way beyond the brink. Screw that, I’m at the point where I don’t even recognize the brink. The brink? What brink? The fact that I even considered (just for one hot minute) running away to join the circus (an entity that I’ve always loathed in its entirety) as a happily ever after from my current home life situation says volumes in itself.

Besides, I don’t have nearly enough tattoos.