I’m not a runner. I’m not even a walker. I’m not an exerciser of any kind, although I used to be. Years ago I was addicted to working out, but then I discovered Oreos, and brownies, and Hardee’s, and pretty much all the things that make life worth living.
So I fell off the work-out wagon. Actually, I don’t think the work-out wagon would actually be a wagon at all. Sitting on that wagon wouldn’t be working out…but pulling the wagon would be. So I guess I hopped aboard some sort of wagon and then didn’t do shit.
Either way, I stopped doing my daily cardio, unless you count for my mad dash to the fridge for the last pudding cup. I used to run every day, and had a love/hate relationship with it, as I think everyone does. No one likes to run, just like no one likes Pauly Shore. If they tell you differently, they are a liar (or in the case of liking Pauly Shore, they’re just a douchebag).
This weekend I ran some errands with my friend Pajama Jeans (not her real name). It was nice to have some girl time, even though we didn’t talk about our lady parts once. That’s not the point of girl time, despite what all men think. Rather, it was nice to get away from work and shelter stuff and all the other things that seem to comprise my time.
At the end of the day, she said she had one more stop, and asked if I minded going with her to Fleet Feet to get a new pair of insoles for her running shoes. Whatever. There was a McDonald’s close by and I was blinded by the thought of a Diet Coke, so I agreed.
For those of you who don’t know what Fleet Feet is, it’s a store that focuses on running and working out. It’s obviously stupid and annoying, but since I’m a good friend, I went anyway.
We walked into the store and it was packed with people. Did these people actually enjoy running? Didn’t they know there was an option of not running? These people were clearly overachievers and no one I wanted to be associated with. I walked around to keep myself busy and to keep myself from telling the sales lady she needed to eat a ham sandwich…and an entire bag of chips.
I walked around and found an area of bumper stickers for sale. They mostly had “13.1” and “26.2” stickers. See what I mean? Overachievers. And what a way to brag about it…you ran 26.2 miles…whoopty freaking doo. I ate an entire sheet cake, yet I don’t have a bumper sticker denoting that accomplishment.
I looked around for a sticker that said “0.3” as I’m pretty sure that’s the most I could run without passing out or punching someone in the face due to sheer misery. They didn’t have the sticker, so I moved on to another part of the store.
As I walked around the store, I realized I was the only one in there who was in double digit clothing. Everyone else was a perfect size 4, and was presumably starving. I immediately felt guilty (not because I downed a wrap at Red Robin just prior to the errands. I felt great about that).
I felt guilty because I realized I was actually screwing over the store. By being fat in the store, I was suggesting to the other patrons that I was a runner too, and I was a believer in their products…which would be great if my stomach wasn’t hanging over my pants.
I felt like I should have worn a sign around my neck stating “I’m not a runner. I’m just here for the brownies.” At least that way people would know I didn’t use any of the store’s products, and my flabby arms shouldn’t be an endorsement for the store. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t asked to leave immediately.
I decided to walk to the back of the store to hide myself from the crowd (and also to look for brownies). I walked around the back of the store and hit the motherload. No, it wasn’t a table of baked goods, although what I found was almost as exciting. There was an entire section dedicated to foot problems and solutions. What?!
As you know, I have foot issues and have to wear sweet orthopedic shoes that make me look like I pass out meds at a nursing home. It sucks, but it’s the only way I can walk and not be completely miserable. The foot area in Fleet Feet was complete with different remedies and relief options for foot pain. Granted, my foot pain isn’t because I follow a strenuous running schedule, but more because I follow a strenuous eat/sleep schedule. It’s rigorous.
As I looked at the various options, I realized I wasn’t alone. Other patrons had discovered this section of the store (probably because I’m such a trend setter). I looked up and saw I was the only woman under the age of 60 who was drooling at the foot products. Seriously. I was immediately reminded that I didn’t have an AARP card nor did I eat my dinner at 4:00 at Country Buffet (although this girl always appreciates a good buffet spread).
I slowly backed away from the orthopedic area, careful not to knock anything over. I didn’t want to throw any of these old bettys backs out if they tried to pick up a fallen orthodic. Amazingly, I escaped without incident, which was a triumph in itself.
I found Pajama Jeans who was working with an employee to find the perfect insert. I sat down next to her, as all that walking around the store was exhausting, and I still hadn’t located a brownie. The woman was talking to PJ about running and walking and the effect it has on her feet. When I sat down, she didn’t seem to notice me, and kept talking to PJ as if I wasn’t there at all. At first, I wanted to be offended, but then I realized the woman wasn’t wrong to ignore me. I clearly wasn’t there to get into shape. Whatevs.
We finally got the proper insoles for PJ and left the store. It was a successful day of running errands (which consequently, was the only “running” I did that day…or ever). PJ will probably break in those insoles in no time with her regular sprints and exercise. Meanwhile, I will go back to what I do best, eating and writing a blog about eating. I say you stick with what you know.