I Will Keep Running

My first 10kA few years ago, I started running. Did Couch to 5k, then on to 10k, and a little further. I was going to do my first half marathon in March, but the internet told me that now is not the time to stretch yourself.

That’s the only thing I’ll give on – no marathon. As long as I feel okay, as long as I can see the tips of my toes, I’m going to run.

See, I’ve got a lot of fat in me just waiting to come out. It’s not a hypothetical, it’s in there. I set it free when I was 9 and spent the next 10 years fighting it back inside. It pushed back again in my mid-twenties. That’s when I started running.

I LOVE to eat. Food is exciting. It’s a present waiting to be unwrapped. It’s a reward for being a person. If I let myself, I could match everyone of those 40 lb steak meat-lovers challenges they have in Middle America diners.

But I don’t. Food for me is like sex for good Catholics. I eat something bad for me, and I feel like a horrible person. Obviously, a little guilt isn’t enough to get me to stop eating the bad things.

I used to think that being pregnant would be a great excuse to eat whatever you wanted. Finally, I could gorge and not feel bad about myself for not being perfect. But so far, it’s not like that. Maybe I’ll feel differently when I get to the bump portion of the evening, but now, I’m just terrified I’m going to be like Debra Messing.

Debra Blob

I know I’m showing my gross right now, but it was really disturbing to watch her go from tiny to blob on Will & Grace. I still have a hard time looking at her pancake face.

The fat is waiting.

I know it’s horrible to be vain like this. I very well might spread out and become a weird blob of a woman. It’s the price we pay for “the miracle” of childbirth, right? We’re supposed to be okay with it. It’s not like my body is rockin’ right now, but this could very well be as good as it gets. I think I’m gonna let myself mourn that a little bit.


I know that the more I gain now, the more I’m going to have to lose later. Many of my friends have looked adorable throughout their pregnancy. And afterwards? It’s like nothing happened, like they had calculated exactly how much fat the baby needed and gained no more, no less. I know that’s not going to be me, so I’m taking extra precautions. I’m not starving myself, I love food too much to have ever even THOUGHT about that. But I’m not going to just let the fat run free, either.

It’s not healthy for the baby. I try to tell myself that this is the number 1, primary reason I’m concerned. The baby should get lots of nutrients and vegetables and a healthy womb is a healthy baby and love and warmth and goo goo ga ga. But it doesn’t matter why I’m doing it. I’m going to eat what I need to eat, try not to overindulge, know that I will keep feeling guilty when I do, and keep on running until it doesn’t make sense any more (I’m not going to be stupid about it).

Jeebus, I hope I don’t pass these issues onto my kid.


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