Running Amok

Since well-meaning friends who remember Jen, B.C. (Before Child), and the associated running obsession, have inquired tentatively if I've been "getting out", I thought I would dedicate today's thoughts once again to the subject of running.  They ask kindly in the tones reserved for the recently rehabbed alcoholic; as if bringing up the subject conversationally is somehow crass or insensitive and may propel me into the fetal position clutching my running shoes to my chest.  It is true that I miss the old running me with an odd brand of intensity.  Gone are the carefree days of flouncing out the door at the drop of a hat to run whatever distance my legs are willing to carry me.  It currently takes me longer to plan the outing than it does to actually cover the ridiculously short distance over which my postpartum body is willing to withstand the forces of gravity before collapsing into a quivering heap.


It goes like this.  First I feed Izzy and place her soundlessly into her crib.  As I tiptoe away, her eyes pop open into full interactive mode and the rocking, feeding, and off-key singing cycle begins all over again.  Repeat 3 times.   Then I pump, strap my, um, assets to my body, dress in triplicate layers (it is winter in Michigan, after all) and then...what was that?  It is the discreet sound of the pacifier popping from Izzy's little rosebud mouth and onto the sheet (amazing what my newly acquired Mama brand spy-ears can pick up).  This tragedy seems to happen in slow motion like a scene from a bad spy thriller.  If she is not stirred by the air currents created by the falling pacifier, I'm good to go and Daddy is on the clock.  If not, back to step 1.

Eventually, I am on the road.  I have progressed from huffing and puffing a run/walk distance of 1 mile to now running 1.5 to 2 miles at a decent clip (by my new, lowered standards) and with minimal air sucking.  I even covered a 3 mile run a few days ago. A far cry from my glory days of marathon training.  But I was feeling pretty pumped about hitting my stride yesterday until a pickup truck pulled up beside me and asked if that was my car kissing the telephone pole a mile or so back.  Geez, I don't look like a runner, I look like a criminal fleeing awkwardly from a car crash!   Well, I am nothing if not stubborn.  I will continue to cram myself into lycra tights and a sporty hoodie to grunt out my daily miles, Izzy willing.  And feel free to ask openly about my progress: My name is Jen, and I am a runner.