When I started this blog, I promised myself that I would always be completely honest here. There’s no point in lying to people–if you can’t be truthful with someone, then the relationship probably isn’t worth maintaining. And besides, this is my sandbox. Come play or not as you see fit, but when you’re here, you get Pure Fresh-Squeezed Truth, never from concentrate, with no added sugar or artificial flavorings.
So here’s today’s truth: I went out for my jogwalk this morning, and it was not pretty.
The sun is shining and the sky is blue. It’s a lovely autumn day here in Kansas. The leaves have turned and/or fallen, the non-migratory birds are gossiping to each other, there’s a gentle breeze, and our dogs keep treeing adorably fuzzy squirrels. Plus it’s a Monday, which is a BW Zombiepocalypse Training Day, so I strapped on my shoes (which somehow manage to make my size-11 feet look dainty), pulled on my black exercise pants and matching fuzzy vest, put on my purple long-sleeve tee (for a pop of color, y’know. Fashion is important when getting sweaty in public), strapped myself into my assorted braces and support wraps (I like to think that passersby think that I am perhaps some sort of cyborg, what with all the lumps and bumps around my knees and ankles), and headed out into the day.
I got about two blocks when I realized that I was breathing a little heavily and was already starting to sweat.
So I checked my phone (aka, the Official BW Timekeeping Device), discovered I was walking at a slightly faster pace than usual, congratulated myself, and dropped back half a step so I wouldn’t fizzle out before I even made it to the corner where I start my jogging.
Got to the corner, took off jogging toward the little green bridge, and stopped about 20 paces shy of the bridge because both of my legs had drafted clever and well-worded notes of protest and were passing around a petition to secede. They had a pretty strong majority, so I gracefully acknowledged their victory and slowed to a walk. It’s ok, I reasoned; I usually walk for a while after the little green bridge anyway, and then jog again just before I get to the little red bridge.
Approached the little red bridge, started jogging again, and discovered that my legs had been busy organizing sister protests in my ankles and feet while I wasn’t paying attention. We made it across that bridge (between approach and crossing, I reckon I jogged for about a minute total–this counts as triumph on my planet) and a few additional steps down the sidewalk when I suddenly found myself confronting an angry mob of lower extremities who were not only threatening to secede but to burn the BW Nation to the ground on their way out. So we walked again.
Made it to the turnaround point in the allotted 10 minutes (for a second there it looked like I’d be able to make it past the current turnaround point–I just move the point a little farther down the road whenever I’m able–but as it turned out, that’s just because I had apparently lost my ability to read a digital clock), reversed direction, and headed back…and the protesting hordes in my legs and feet chanted slogans and waved hateful signs at me the entire time. Every step just made them more insistent; trying to focus on my surroundings, the music coming from my headset, mental drafts of what I’d write today, anything at all just made them louder. Needless to say, there was no jogging on the return trip, and I usually try to jog for at least one or two bursts on the way home. *sigh*
So I hobbled my tragic self home, unstrapped/unzipped/untied, threw on my housedress, took some ibuprofen, and am now sitting very still and typing away while the local peacekeeping force attempts to convince the protestors in my legs that no, we will not be using any sort of force to get you all to leave, but we assure you that your message has been received loud and clear and is being taken under advisement even as we speak, so perhaps you’d like to mosey on along home now and quit pestering the nice people in BW’s brain.
Which brings us to today’s truth: it ain’t all sunshine and roses around here, and that’s ok.
There are going to be days, like today, when the Daily Triumph is somewhat less triumphant than I might have hoped. There will be days when the Daily Triumph just doesn’t happen at all. And really, there are going to be days when I don’t even try for a Daily Triumph, and opt instead to sit around and watch reruns of America’s Next Top Model while shoveling ice cream into my gaping maw (“haha, little models! I can eat ice cream and youuuu caaaaan’t!”).
But it’s the effort that counts. It’s having the courage to get up again on Wednesday and give it another go. It’s allowing myself the option of meeting with more success somewhere down the road.
And if nothing else, it’s the joy of knowing that I really do look awfully cute in my jaunty workout outfit. I’ll try to convince hubby to snap a picture sometime. Seriously. So adorable.