I spent just about a year nursing a knee injury. I couldn’t play soccer. I couldn’t roll around on the floor with my nephews for more than 20 minutes at a time without cringing in pain. And I couldn’t run. It sucked. I had no idea how addicted I was to (slowly) propelling myself forward — cutting through the air as my shoes pounded concrete, pavement, bricks, dirt and puddles of mud water.
Z and I had trained for and ran the Marine Corps Marathon two years ago. And here I was limping around and trying not to feel too self-conscious about spending so much time on the elliptical machine. So I avoided the gym. Made excuses not to workout. I gained 20 pounds. Z was seven months pregnant and I was just fat. My clothes were snug or just didn’t fit at all. It was worse than not being able to run. As much as I love to run, I love looking good in good-looking clothes. I was forced to wear khakis and a polo shirt to work. I looked like, dare I say, the average guy. It sucked big time.
But now, four weeks into running between 12-15 miles each week. Slowly working my body back into some shape other than an over-ripe pear. Steadily running faster (from 14 min. miles a month ago to 11:30 min miles tonight). I am feeling better and better about the chance that one day I will walk over to that closet, open those doors and grab that Thomas Pink shirt and not think twice about my love handles.
