Stacey and Clinton would be terribly disappointed in me. This evening I commited a crime against the proper way to buy clothes. I found some adorable pants at Ross. Considering I only own 1 (ONE) pair of pants (jeans) that currently fit me, I desperately need another one. So I found what I thought would be my size and tried them on. Apparently I feel skinner than I really am, because 5 days of running hasn't shrunk me in the least bit. But...I BOUGHT THEM ANYWAY. Full knowing they were too small (not terribly, just enough to be unflattering), I purchased them anyway thinking that they will fit soon. I guess I'd better keep running, because my $20 cute new pants are holding me to it.
Speaking of running (which I do alot now - sorry), today I went to the Y alone. Fabulous. I was the only girl on the track, and there were lots of fit men running by me. I felt like unto a buffalo as I thundered slowly along. My only hope was that they would pass me so quickly they wouldn't notice how slow I was going and how profusely I was sweating. Have I mentioned before that I hate sweating? I hate sweating. That's how determined I am to be a runner. I am allowing myself to sweat. Massive quantities.
Anyway, one awkward moment came to pass while I jogged along behind an older gentleman with incredibly small legs and a very disproportionately (did I spell that right? that is a very long word) large top. In front of him was a VERY old man (probably 80) walking very slowly. I passed them both, and the pleasure of doing so gave me a little extra burst of energy. (Pathetic that the only people I can pass are old men.) I picked up speed and looked at my watch, as I frequently do, to see how much longer until I could walk again. Right as I did this, one of the men from behind me said, "It's working!" I knew he was talking to me. But I didn't know what he was talking about. His strange comment gave me something to think about for the rest of my workout. What was working? My watch? My running program - he was telling me how hot I was? My attempt at speeding up and passing him? I wish I knew what that old man meant. I guess I'll never know. But then every time I passed them both after that, I kept being afraid he (whichever one it was) wouldn't say anything else. How awkward.
Whatever that weird old man meant by, "It's working!" I know that I'd better keep working if I want to fit into those pants. Maybe I should stop eating candy corn...oh well. The bag's almost gone anyway.