I Am Not A Runner

I did not lose weight this week. Therefore, G., my sadistic unfeeling nasty trainer made me run today. A mile-and-a-half. Actually, it was a pitiful jog. But there was no walking. And I didn't stop. He wouldn't let me. The one time I did a little jog-hobble-walk move, he threatened to make it two miles. So I pushed. And wheezed.

The couple of times he let me lag behind him (this was such a walk in the park for this dude) I delighted in rolling my eyes, or giving him the finger. But I jogged that whole stupid mile-and-a-half, outside, in the cold. My nose ran. My thighs and back started aching. My shins went numb (Hey! No shin splints!).

I thought I might die. For a few minutes, I wanted to. But I didn't die.

"Come on, Megan! How old are you? Twenty-seven?"

*gasp* *choke* "THURRRTEEEEWUUNNNN!!" *wheeze* *whimper*

"You are a young woman, Megan. I can push you to do this because you're not going to have a heart attack."

"IIIIIMIIIIGHT" *gasp* "THROOOOOWWUHHHHP." *whine*

But I didn't throw up. My heart pounded, but didn't sieze. I wheezed, I ached, but I didn't stop. I made it that entire mile-and-a-half.

At times, G. would put his hand to my back and half-push me along, telling me, "Come on, keep this pace. Don't slow down. Keep it up." I would find a spurt of energy and push it forward for a moment before slowing down again.

I can't tell you how happy I was as we approached the end of our course. I wanted to cry--because I hurt, because I was angry that he made me do it, because I was frustrated at not losing weight this week...but also because I made it.

I. Made. It.