It Burns

Don't get me wrong, today was certainly epic. Heck, I wore a dress and heels for once. I never wear heels. 

I felt...pretty.

Since I was feeling so on top of the world, I decided I'd finally get on that internal nagging that I am in danger of gaining weight and/or turning into a wet noodle that's too weak and wimpy to do anything. I decided to go to the gym for the first time in my life.

I am petrified of the gym.

I'm always scared there'll be some beefy Marine on the Bowflex next to me, or worse, some attractive guy from my school and I'll look so lame as I gasp and pant on the treadmill. But I told myself to just buckle down and do it. I put on some important-looking pink workout shorts, thereby asserting my supposed athleticism, switched on a hardcore playlist on my iPod for just such an occasion, and confidently trotted down the street. I inwardly sighed with relief as I saw a thirty-something guy jog sweatily down the street away from the gym. Maybe I'd be alone. I heaved my way up the small flights of stairs until I reached the metal door and tugged.

Locked.

The sign on the door patronizingly informed me that I would not be permitted to touch the inside of the gym until April 3rd. But I had not come all the way around the corner for nothing. I marched around the side of the building to be presented with a mosquito-infested corner containing a padded area and a couple pull-up bars. Most importantly, it was all but hidden from public view. Perfect. 

50 crunches, 50 lunges, 25 pushups, 10 times up the stairs, a couple ten-second, chin-level arm-hangs from the pull-up bar, 10 dips, 5 standing sit-ups, 10 more pushups, and 25 more crunches later, I had nothing left to do. It was only 6:19 and I'd come at 6:00. Have I only been here for that long?

All that was left was to run.

I hate running more than anything. I always keep waiting for that so-called 'runners high' to strike me after I finish a mile in PE. It never does. Maybe I was born without that capacity. In any case, I despise it. I always get this helpless feeling about two-thirds of the way through, as if I'm being pulled down by lead weights and I'm never going to make it. My lungs burn, my feet become concrete blocks, my legs become jelly. It's horrible. But I figured a simple trip down the street to the skate park and back couldn't be that bad. Less than a mile. Half of it was downhill. 

As if.

It didn't burn until after I'd turned around and decided on adding a simple loop around the barracks building to my route, stopped for ten seconds to say high to a friend, and continued on. By the time I rounded the barracks, all I could think, all I could feel and want and fathom, was to get home. To stop. I crossed the parking lot, clearing the sidewalks with as long, leaping strides as I could muster with my long legs. I wished I wasn't so tired-- I might've had the strength or willpower to make it look a little cooler. 

Finally, finally, I rounded the final corner and panted my way up the ever-so-slight slant that was my street. My inviting driveway, my finish line, beckoned maddeningly. My face throbbed. Everyone else seems to sweat so gracefully, their faces shining, some with a single drop running down. They look almost cool and refreshed. My face throbs. It reddens around my cheekbones and all the blood and sweat underneath my skin pulsates painfully. Makes me wonder if I have a disease or something. 

My strides collapsed into a wobbly walk as I paced the driveway. Heaving open the back door, I tapped my finger at the iPod screen, switching the music off. The heat of the kitchen was suffocating compared to the coolness outside, so I grabbed a water bottle and escaped to the backyard, where I collapsed in a lawn chair, gasping at the sky. It was a few minutes before my burning lungs, limbs, and throat would allow water. I gulped painfully and soon finished off the entire thing. My stomach groaned in protest at how fast I swigged it all down, and it churned with the remains of my chocolate ice cream of earlier. 

Chocolate ice cream was a bad choice.

At last I made it to the bathroom. Examined my pink face. Tossed open the toilet lid. Heaved and gagged  until a small bit of the ice cream was no longer inside of me. My gurgling, burning throat told me there was more that wanted out, but I refused. Shut the lid, flushed, splashed some water on my face and let it drip. 

And after all that, I'm determined to make certain that I do not become a wet noodle.