I can’t.
That’s what I hear in my head. That’s what I hear when I talk.
I just… can’t. Not today.
And yet having stuffed my face with half a jar of peanut butter, drowning my sorrows and frustrations and regrets in the crunchy goodness of peanut-y, buttery goodness, more than ever do I need to work off some of the weight. The moonshot is this month. My bathroom scale groans under the pressure of time and girth. In two weeks I’ve seemingly gained 15 pounds. Is that even possible? It must be. It’s the same scale. Gravity hasn’t been altered. The only thing different is… me.
Body shaming is a buzzworthy thing of the moment… and perhaps has been a thing since time immemorial. As a guy, there’s a sexist forgiving curve for male body shaming — there’s less virtiol, an easier excuse for “distinguished” with age rather than “old and wrinkled.” There’s an unfair forgiveness of the ballooning belly. And I’m mindful of the body shaming advantage afforded me as a dude, it also means folks are nicer than the reality dictates. I’m hating the way I look. The weight isn’t coming off. And this “moonshot” is feeling more and more like a “moon folly.”
I’m feeling depressed beyond words. It’s a tough, tough day.
I can’t… I just… can’t.
But I did. After much delay and doubt, I laced up my shoes and went out for a short run. My headphones broke in the opening mile. I sucked down two bottles of water before the turnaround. But I went. I don’t feel much better… but every little bit helps.
There’s a post over on Facebook today from a group called “Run For Life.” They are also on twitter with the handle “@runnevergiveup.” And though it was an ugly run today, this seems oddly appropriate and kinda needed as well.
