These people round here
Wear beaten down eyes sunk
In smoke dried faces
They’re so resigned to what their fate is
But not us (no not ever)
But not us (not ever)
We are far too young and clever(Remember)
Too-ra-loo-ra, too-ra-loo-rye, aye
And you’ll hum this tune forever
Week Three, Day One of Zombies, 5K nearly killed me. My work out exploded from about 35 minutes to 45. Not a lot, I’ll admit. Just keep in mind that yours truly lived a couch potato existence for a good chunk of my life.
My legs are screaming at me for overexerting myself in running. I’m thirty, for fucksake. Age doesn’t matter, though. I’m rebuilding my body. But for what reasons? To look better naked? To keep up with my growing child? To catch someone’s eye, or the eye of a certain someone? I use Shaun as a reason, let’s be honest. I’m just tired of being fat. My knees pop with each step and my back aches more each day. The way I lived my life only leads down one path: Me rolling around the city in my Rascal.
I’m not morbidly obese, but I can’t say I’m average. I’m overweight, and I’ve chuckled about it in the past. I don’t let things like this bother me, though my performance in doing the simplest of tasks is becoming less and less – shall we say? – dry. I don’t recall a time when I’ve been a light sweater. I come from a family of sweat. Even in my skinny days, I avoided physical labor because of my sweat. But that’s the first thing being fat takes the blame. Oh, you’re sweating profusely. Must be because you’ve let yourself go. I’m not going to lie to myself and say losing weight will make me sweat any less. And I’m not going to lie to you about that, either. It’s just unnerving what gets blamed.
Last Friday, I noticed a new face at the park (though, I’m probably the new face as I don’t like running in a single area for all to see). A young woman jogging by. I don’t know why I feel the need to share that with you. She’s cute, yeah. But talking to her isn’t an option. Today, I saw another new face (and again, I’m probably the new face). A younger woman walking her dog. And here’s where I’ll end this post. I hate dogs. I loathe them. If I could rid the world of their existence, I would. Yet, with excluding the Mexican rats on crack, they seem to like me. Every time I jogged or walked by, that little fucker would turn course and attempt to drag its poor owner after. I’m sure it wanted to bite me. I mean, after all these years of living an unhealthy lifestyle, I’m sure my sweat is bacon grease.
Chapin City Blues 