the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Working with gravity

You runners may be total nutters, but damn are you ever supportive. I’ve received so much advice concerning form and diet and pace and recommendations for playlists. Can I just give you a big, tight hug and say thank—what? I’m invading your personal space? Why are you furiously washing your hands? Oh, god. Now you’re gagging. No, I don’t know where your EpiPen is!

There’s definitely one thing that has changed everything, or I should say one person. After I wrote about the MRI I had done on my hip (the MRI I aced!), a running specialist named Tracy Peal contacted me on twitter and gave me some incredible advice. He was like, you have how many followers on twitter? Can’t you just bully your legs to perform better?

I can see that going over well:

MY LEGS ARE FASCIST HITLER SOCIALISTS. PLZ RT.

This tweet of his pretty much sums it up:

He told me to keep pulling my foot up, not out, and feel a sense of weightlessness as I moved forward. I should stay tall with my knees bent. I tried this on Saturday and ran 6.3 miles effortlessly. Easiest, most comfortable run yet. It took me a few strides to get a feel for it, but then it made so much sense that I accidentally started twirling, turning cartwheels, and farting confetti.

Ok. So. Form improved. What about my diet? You and your uncle and his best friend and that friend’s hair stylist wrote to tell me that I had to add major carbs back to my diet, let that insane caveman diet slide until all of this is over. You want to know how insane this caveman diet is? This insane: I dread adding back those carbs.

Here I have permission to eat bread and rice and bagels and beans and pasta, and all of it sounds like shit. Give me a steak with a side of broccoli any day over a sandwich with chips, because I remember what I felt like when I ate that way. It’s like having permission to go have sex with David Beckham but only if he sings “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” the entire time.

And that’s what I did before I ran seven miles yesterday, I ate a bowl of brown rice and beans with an egg and some salsa. You guys, I blew that run out of the fucking water. I shaved a good two minutes off of my pace (TWO WHOLE MINUTES, THAT’S ONE MORE THAN ONE!) I’d pass people in the park, wave and shout, “CaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAARRRrrrrrBS!

(Imagine that with Oprah’s intonation.)

That’s what I’m going to be for Halloween. A zombie runner who gave up brains for carbs in an effort to live her best life.

For the next few hours I strutted through my day feeling pretty good about myself what with my improved form and pace, and wait? What is that feeling? Give me second so I can put my finger on it… wait… is it… OH RIGHT. If I stood sideways in the mirror I looked like I was sixteen months pregnant with triplets.

BLOAT. I am not even kidding, my stomach swelled to the size of a basketball. I felt its head crowning for about four hours. My mother and sister gathered to hold my hands as I pushed it into this world. A happy baby ball! Wheee!

WTF?! I didn’t even have any gluten! And we all know that gluten is responsible for every evil thing that has been perpetrated on this earth.

HITLER ATE GLUTEN. PLZ RT.

There has to be a happy medium somewhere in all this madness.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

read more

SaveSave