Not what you’d call sporty.

So the thing is, and we can talk about this more later, I was in a cult or two as a child. This impacts more parts of my life as an adult than you might imagine. Extremes of any kind are something I really avoid, also groups of people who might be extra fanatical. Runners. Vegans. Paleo eaters. Those girls who flip tractor tires in un-air-conditioned warehouses- Cross Fitters! They seem nice and well meaning, like the buff exercise world version of the wholesome Mormon boys on bicycles. Juicers. Especially juice fasters.

I try to keep it all pretty middle of the road, and as a result I’m a little squishy. It’s fine. I blame it on quitting smoking, unfortunately that blessed event was 22 months ago and while most days I would trip a bitch for a cigarette I can’t blame my sourdough pretzel habit on my jones for nicotine. Ok, maybe I can, but I shouldn’t.

So I don’t know- do I want to run? I’ve had a strict “run from danger only” policy and even then… Are my kids safe? Because really, if they’re safe then that bear seems to be coming too fast for me. It’s probably hopeless.

Just five minutes ago my squishy self researched “running clothes for fat girls” and I found a bra that I think will keep the girls pinned down nicely while not giving me uniboob, I don’t care, I refuse to have uniboob, I don’t need to run that badly. I also got some cute shorts and a pair of socks… Will I actually run? I might never tell you. Because at some point someone will tell me I will learn to love it, that it is good for my soul, that I should stay away from the windows when the angel of death is flying by.

For real. That’s a thing. We’ll talk soon.