I started this blog to give me a sense of direction when it came to my body, my life, and my eating – ultimately anything that makes me feel, hear, or embody Run, Fat Bitch. I wanted this blog to cover topics that were real issues, recipes, even rants that we lifestyle-changers-binge-eaters-gym-goers-training-runners face every day; the mundane to the downright irritating.
My best friend, Lood, signed up for a gym contract two weeks ago; a short time in the grand scheme of lifestyle change, he is merely an embryo in his new journey. He loves it. Our conversations have stilted and shifted from penis sizes, wine labels, and relationship advice; to exercise routines, supplement advice and specific goal areas. We are those friends that now cease a conversation the moment we have laced up our shoes and head to our workout; it’s the silent rule ONLY CALL ME AT GYM WHEN YOU ARE DYING/OR ARE ABOUT TO DIE AT YOUR GYM – holding the same weighting system as ‘Never date my ex’. Simple as that.
So during one of these said conversations of in-depth routine comparisons, I mention that running saved me, and because he is my best friend, and the only man who can call me fat, he replies: ‘You saved yourself by running’
It’s almost poetic. It needed a blog post; one that rang stark annotations to the art of running, and being saved with each hard step shuddering up your body. Runners are hardly ever quiet about how great running is, how it saves, behaves, raves and extends us past our graves (see, what I did there). There are articles in abundance on how running has saved lives (see articles, here, here, and here).
After an amazing run (which are few and far between), I posted this on Facebook:
It was a very emotional post, if I do say so myself. Yet, it’s true.
My best friend, Lood, signed up for a gym contract two weeks ago; a short time in the grand scheme of lifestyle change, he is merely an embryo in his new journey. He loves it. Our conversations have stilted and shifted from penis sizes, wine labels, and relationship advice; to exercise routines, supplement advice and specific goal areas. We are those friends that now cease a conversation the moment we have laced up our shoes and head to our workout; it’s the silent rule ONLY CALL ME AT GYM WHEN YOU ARE DYING/OR ARE ABOUT TO DIE AT YOUR GYM – holding the same weighting system as ‘Never date my ex’. Simple as that.
So during one of these said conversations of in-depth routine comparisons, I mention that running saved me, and because he is my best friend, and the only man who can call me fat, he replies: ‘You saved yourself by running’
It’s almost poetic. It needed a blog post; one that rang stark annotations to the art of running, and being saved with each hard step shuddering up your body. Runners are hardly ever quiet about how great running is, how it saves, behaves, raves and extends us past our graves (see, what I did there). There are articles in abundance on how running has saved lives (see articles, here, here, and here).
After an amazing run (which are few and far between), I posted this on Facebook:
Q: “Kelly, why do you run?”
A: “I run because I can, not because I am good at it (because I am not). The 'run' doesn't care what my hair looks like up, down, straight or curly; or if my dress makes my ass look big or even asks my dress size; it never expects me to 'give it up' after dinner; nor does it hold grudges, or call me a bitch when it's moody; it doesn’t care if I wore the same pants twice that week; it never asks when I am getting married; or why I ate that chocolate brownie for lunch. The ‘run’ only cares if I turn up and run, be it slow or fast, long or short. I run because if there is one thing I can do right each day, is not disappoint myself and give up” #RunFatBitch. [sic]
It was a very emotional post, if I do say so myself. Yet, it’s true.
Running saved me from me. I faced my scariest moments while running, staring the hard truth to heartbreak in the face, that insurgent moment of clarification in something bigger than yourself. My day would be a calamity of broken disorder, but the run would somehow blend it to perfect sense; I became my own person. I went from feeling like the loneliest person in a crowded room, to a person who could strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger 8kms into a race.
The physical changes didn’t matter, because running completed me. I lost the cellulite on my thighs, my butt, do I need to keep harping on about my ass. Oh, it’s lucious. People. LUCIOUS. (Ok, moving on – swiftly at that). I made friends, training schedules, pushed pace, learnt when to pull back, and when to push through. I wish I could give ‘the run’ more credit. It has seen more tears than the Oprah finale. It’s heard profanities flung at it for no reason but for it being there. I have hugged it, not intentionally, as I hit the floor with a bang. I don’t even dress up for it. It doesn’t care what I earn, or if I still live at home. I barely have to impress with a light blush and flick of the hair.
I really could bluster on and on, and on, and on. It’s the one thing that truly does give me the credit and control all at once. It is mine, and I love it. It doesn’t always treat me well – just putting it out there.
