Stealing a Snickers Bar

So last night’s workout was…wait, what was that word I used before?  Oh, yeah.  Brutal.  B to the R to the UTAL!  Yep, that’s what it was.
All day long I worried about the workout of the day.  So here’s what I learned from that:  Don’t look up the workout of the day beforehand.  Just be surprised.  Go in blind.  It’s much better than giving yourself an ulcer because your first group class EVER totally revolves around running.
Let me tell you about running.  The last time I ran, it was with by best friend, Gina, in high school.  We signed up for the track team (um, yeah, that did not work out for me), and during workouts the team coincidentally ran right by her house, so we (being the conniving teenagers that we were) dropped to the back of the line and slowly faded into her front door—where we enjoyed snacks and Mountain Dew until the rest of the suckers came by again on their return lap through town.  As they gasped to make the trek back to school, we jogged along with Mountain Dew sloshing in our stomachs thinking we would much rather be in her living room watching Oprah.  So that was the peak of my running career.  It all went downhill from there.
I think I sort of did a skip-run once when there was a double markdown on Coach purses, but I can’t be positive.  I might have just been riding the wave of sale-hungry shoppers.  And there are rare occasions when I might concede to running now—like if there is a shoe sale.  Or maybe even if one of my kids is about to be hit by a bus.  Then I’d at least give it a good Girl Scout try.
Ok, back to last evening’s torture.  Ahem…workout.
First of all, it was hot.  And sticky.  Muy, muy sticky.  Secondly, I had stuffed the girls into some sports bra contraption that was mushing everything together, and combined with the sweat, worked to form a fairly sizeable LAKE.  (Just so you know—for me, sweaty “girls” = grumpy.  I know, I know.  TMI.  But I’m trying to set a scene here.)
So the coach (a.k.a. head torturer of the day) decided we should take our running outside.  Where? you might ask.  He decided to take us across the road to the police station track/torture course—which, as you can imagine is directly behind the parking lot of the police station.  That means every single cop in Lee’s Summit had front-row seats to my humiliation.
And then the coach said something like, “3-2-1 Go!”  or “Heart Attack!” or something like that.  I am telling you right now that track HAS to be longer than 400 meters per lap.  I’m pretty sure it’s more like a mile per lap, at least.
I started off strong—really, really strong.  In fact, I almost made it to the little rabbit that was staring at me from the first curve before I started to sputter, wheeze, and see visions of my dead great-grandma saying, “Well, I’d rather put on a tin bill and pick sh*t with the chickens…”  Yeah, me too, Nanny.
Needless to say, the little bunny was scared.  Be afraid, little bunny.  Be very, very afraid.  I’m sure the little guy was leisurely munching on grass and whatever else it is that bunnies munch on when, to his utter dismay, he looked up to see the Michelin Man, clad in black running pants and a drenched t-shirt, headed straight for him at a…well, not-so-fantastic rate of speed.
The bunny ran off, far away from the track, as I approached, but as I neared him, I think I heard him tell me, “Go back, go back.”  Oh wait, no that was the hallucination I was having, combined with a touch of heat stroke I think.
So I rounded the corner toward the police department parking lot—because I really, really could not wait for Lee’s Summit’s finest to see me in action.  Honestly, I’m surprised they were not out there recruiting me right then.  But that’s probably because they were inside the building laughing at the girl hobble-running up a hill like she stole a Snickers bar.
I made it through the course, and I’m alive to talk about it today, so that’s a step in the right direction I suppose.
And THEN!  Then, do you know what I did?  I’ll tell you.  I went back for more this morning.  (Mostly because I like the feeling of fire and volcano lava searing my muscles.  I mean, who wouldn’t like that?  Oh yeah…normal people.)
So now I can’t move.  But I can’t really sit still either.  No one will show sympathy for my butt crisis, but I am fairly certain I have strained something down there.  Ouch.  But, no pain, no gain—I am down 9 pounds so far and still trucking.  (Never mind the numbness and tingling in my right leg.)

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