All you do is put one foot down in front of the other. Like walking. You can even start with walking. One foot in front of the other. And then a little faster of a walk. And then a little faster. And then, a decision. An easy one, she thought. You either strike that arms akimbo Barbie pose and commit to the speed walk, beloved by visor-wearing ladies, and looking like anger repression in motion, or you lift your knees, spread out your stride and you run.
Or clump, that’s what it was going to feel like, she was going to clump along. Her legs were going to sluggishly piston and she was going to chug forward like a drunk baby elephant. Her car was parked at the trailhead and she was frozen in her seat, eyes on the smooth asphalt path bending around a corner and into the trees. One bicyclist had passed her line of vision in the ten minutes she’d been there, fumbling with her keys and contemplating her demise.
Why not cycling? Why didn’t she try that? It was smooth and fast and you appear competent. And if you don’t, you zoom right past the judgment. They get a swift glance at your rippley derriere and you are gone before their assessment of your inadequacy is complete. A bike was expensive, that’s why. And Peter would, of course, notice it wedged into their overstuffed garage. Couldn’t toss a bike in the back of the closet, nonchalantly throw it in your work bag in the morning. He’d want to join, want to assist. He’d watch and ask. He’d encourage her and point out road races she could enter. She dug the sharp edge of the car key into her palm as she thought of it. There was no way she was opening herself up to his careful, condescending helpfulness.
Her anger got her out of the car. She locked the door and slid the key into the small front pocket on her spandex shorts. It made an odd bump on her lower abdomen no matter how she adjusted it. As if one more lumpy bit makes a difference? Right. She left it alone and went over to the trail. Feeling exposed and silly, she started walking. Almost immediately, she heard a runner coming behind her and the panic rose up. What would the person say? They could laugh; they could raise their eyebrows in doubt. Was she on the right side of the trail? Was she doing this wrong, too? Maybe it was the time of day when only professional athletes were there and she was going to make them angry for being in their way, for making them look at something unsightly.
Her ears rang with fear. The runner passed. He was an older, white hair, lean, with impossibly long legs. He skimmed, he floated. He didn’t do or say anything to her. She was a blip on his graceful journey. Gratitude, she was overwhelmed with gratitude for being a blip. She kept walking, feeling the spandex swish between her thighs, the elastic edging on the shorts beginning to pull. She heard another runner coming. She quickened her pace and felt another surge of anxiety, knowing the transition to baby elephant was her next option. The stride coming up was heavier than the last. Another man passed. A guy with a gut this time, muscular, but sloppy, red, red face, sweat pouring off him, panting, with a slight angle of his body to the left, as if expectant of a support to appear and push him back upright. He gave her a quick, tortured nod and tilted on.
She took a coward’s courage from his grunting progress and transitioned to a slow jog, eyes fixed on the asphalt ahead. Step, step, step, step. Her arms jiggled, her stomach jiggled, her butt jiggled, her thighs jiggled. Step, step, step, step. Her shirt started to creep up. She pulled it down. Step, step, step, step. The shorts did not stay adjusted the way she wanted and the waistband began to dig in right beneath the tummy lumps she’d smoothed them over, squeezing her abdomen out in a tidy roll. Which the shirt then obligingly crept up away from, showcasing the white round of lazy excess this running was going to get rid of. A cyclist was coming towards her, a sleek female, swift and lean. She gave a quick tug and pull, cheeks aflame.
There was a possibility that buying running clothes a size too small had been a bad idea. She’d done it on purpose, assessing her reflection in the changing room mirror with an angry satisfaction. Her plan involved shaming herself into shape. Buy the clothing you know you should fit in and wear it until you do. The fact you look so bad will make you run harder, faster and turn down those nacho cheese sticks at happy hour. Fear of the spandex will keep your lips sealed. As the shirt made another attempt at ascension, she realized that, if she wanted to think about her run and wanted to maybe even try to enjoy it, she was going to have to change her tactic. Step, step, step, step.
Manet, Before the Mirror
