I woke full of hope that my leg would cooperate with me.
I had pulled something in my thigh a few days prior. It ached all day Monday, whenever I put my leg at a weird angle, or after sustained movement. Or, after resting too long before being moved again. I think it was during a stretch before my Saturday run.
My body hadn’t quite woken up as I left the bathroom, still clad in my pajamas. Leg felt fine until I changed into my running shorts–then a twinge. I ran on the spot for a few steps, to see if I could simulate actually running. After a few minutes of futzing, and quite disappointed, I pulled my running shoes off.
I was too awake to go right back to bed–I had woken up an hour early for a reason, dammit. My eye caught something in my closet. Last year, before I started running, I had picked up two pairs of shorts and a pair of pants at a thrift store. They were a size too small. I couldn’t return them, but I figured “I intend to lose weight, so I’ll keep them.” They would be my “skinny pants.” The ones that marked an arbitrary goal.
So, standing in my boxers on a Tuesday morning, I started to wonder: Last count, I was down 35 pounds. Even since the last time I wore my running shorts, I had to re-tie them. I wonder if I’ve lost a couple of inches amid everything else. One by one, I tried on the pants, then both pairs of shorts. I knew even before I had them buttoned up: I fit into them.
Five minutes later, content–even without the run–I fell back into bed. Feeling like, at the very least, I had tangible evidence that this running/dieting craze was doing something for me.