Good, I’m glad I got your attention. In the last two weeks, really in a matter of ten days, I have traveled to two out of town weddings and had to chat it up with two of my most significant exes in my life. Both ex-boyfriends, both of whom I dated for about two years apiece, and both whom I generally treated poorly due to my emotional immaturity and lack of taking responsibility for generally being a jerk. That last statement took me about three years to come to grips with, but I have to tell you, for my most introspective blog post yet, I think you are really going to get it.
I was a fattie in college. Like, knee roll fat. Oh, I thought I looked goooood, but it was only until I started accumulating ex-boyfriends that I really started to work out. Why, you ask? Because I liked running, and nothing makes a chubby chick like me run fast like running by an ex-boyfriend’s house.
I’m not kidding, you really should try it. In college, my extensive 1.2 mile route around town included passing the abodes of one ex-boyfriend, two one night stands, and the real kicker at the 1 mile mark… my current crush. If you haven’t tried this tactic, it is fool-proof: you run by your ex’s house… imagine him trying to blowing the sexual mind of his new squeeze, when she leans over and glances out the bedroom window and sees a slim, svelte, independent you flying by. She casually says, “Wow, is that Brooke? She looks amazing. I hope I can look as good as her someday”. Never mind that my back fat is hanging out of my “athletic tee” (I don’t know why they call them that when athletic people rarely wear them) and I am bouncing around like a salmon trying to swim upstream to the latest top forty chick jam. Thanks, Beyonce, you are right… I AM a survivor.
I doubt these men or the current supermodels they appeared to be fucking ever saw me. I may even wager a guess that their housemates may have spotted me and been horrified that I knew where they lived.
The one night stand run-bys usually mirrored the experience of the one night stand itself: emotional, sweaty, and fleeting. I was convinced, however, that one of these men would see me as he walked out of his place for Sunday brunch, see that he had missed out on a total dish, and quickly dash to breakfast to hatch out a plan with four of his closest guy friends a la “Entourage” in an attempt to woo me and get me to be his lady. I always made sure I had my “serious run face” on. You know, Rocky Theme serious. Alas, I suppose I eventually realized why my connection with these men lasted mere minutes in both the bedroom and the pavement.
Now the grand finale. I’ve been running for 18 minutes and am huffing so much, a passer by might think my asthma is acting up and call an ambulance. In other words, I look really sexy. Frustratingly enough, my crush for most of the second half of college lived on a residential street, which made motivating very difficult. I’m a performer by nature, and as such, high traffic environments keep me moving. Who wants to be in a crowd of people when they give up on fitness, blast the Smiths on the ol’ ipod and transition into power walking? Awful. These residential streets were death for motivation, and my crush had the nerve to live there. Ugh, he is a jerk anyways. That’s the moment I opt for another loop past the ex… maybe he’s going to do laundry and when he spots me, dirty clothes in tow, my beauty will distract him and he will drop his laundry mid-crosswalk on Main street… into town I go!!!
This plan played in sick cycles for years, and it was only until I moved to Columbus, where I had zero sexual past, that I could run for me and only me. And I will be running my second half-marathon in a month from today. I just really hope the course isn’t on residential streets, or this inner fat chick will be pissed.