Running in the morning is not my thing. It is a neccessity when it gets to be over 80 by 10am, and doesn’t cool off til 10pm. So I’ve been waking up early to get a run in before breakfast a few days a week. The before breakfast part also doesn’t help, but I don’t like to run with a sloshy stomach. Besides the typical list of issues (non-wedgie underwear? check. Boobies squeezed into sportsbra oblivion? check. Hair flattened by a thousand barrettes? check…) I decided not to wrangle my ipod and earbuds in a circuitous route down my sports bra, through my drawstring and into pocket. Cranky=no patience.
So I went out on my run/jog. I did not feel like it. I never do in the morning. But since I had no music, I had a running dialogue in my head.
You think that’s running? That’s barely a jog.
See that car that slowed down? Yeah, they were laughing. At you.
Oh no. You don’t get a break now. You just had one half a mile ago, wimp.
Hey, woosie, stop dragging your feet. You haven’t had a stroke, you just suck.
Do you want to wear a shirt that says “sad sack of oatmeal”? Cuz if you don’t pick it up, you will, you sad sack of oatmeal.
Do you EVER want to wear a bikini? Then run faster, jello belly.
Every woman has the cold, bitchy heart of a mean girl tucked away inside of them. Most use that voice against others, but apparently I save that inner mean girl for myself.
My theory is I can blame it all on my dad. (How’s that for a mature response?)
See, my dad was always the coach on any stupid team I was on. And I’m not a team player. Peer pressure does not work on me. It just doesn’t. Not even when I’m trapped in super-heavy softball uniforms. (Seriously, why is that crap so heavy and thick when it’s the middle of the summer?!) But regardless, my dad was always there, pointing out every possible flaw in my swing before I even made it to bat. I’m sure he was trying to be helpful, but our household was not filled with cries like “You can do it! Have fun!” It was more like “Suck it up!” and “Eye on the ball!”.
When I was eight I was forced to play softball. Well, from the age of 6-11. It was a family tradition, you see. So imagine little, eight year old me just went out past third base. A grounder comes my way, and when I scoop down to get it, the damned ball rolls up my arm and socks me in the mouth. I come in to the bench crying. My dad says “Suck it up!” (Our family motto, I swear.) When I told him I wanted to quit for the day because my mouth hurt, he told me it couldn’t hurt that bad. I spit out a tooth into his hand. He did concede that it might, infact, hurt, but quitting was for babies. In the end, I got extra candy after the game, which at the age of eight is worth every tooth in your mouth.
I’m no victim here. I inherited that mentality and embrace the Suck It Up motto. In most situations it is a good thing. But when I read scientific studies that say positive attitudes help people run better, I think I’m just screwed, because I am simply not wired that way.