Today I am beginning week four of my program. My body is under going subtle changes. My back and legs are far more limber. It is much easier for me to tie my shoes. Now I practically bound up the stairs of my house, while a month ago I had to drag myself up and was breathless at the top. Although I still prefer the water, I have worked up to a mile at a time walking on the track.
Along with the capacity to exercise, I am also learning patience, which is definitely not one of my strong points. Last week, for example, I came down with a virus and was sidelined for four days. Fortunately two of the days were Saturday and Sunday, which are my days off. But on Monday and Tuesday, I pretty much stuck to the couch daydreaming and napping. Being sick while retired is really a lot nicer than while working. If this virus had struck during my working life, I would have gone into the office anyway, prolonging the bug and probably infecting my colleagues. Instead, this time I dozed my way through it, patiently allowing my body to deal with the pathogen at its own pace.
The lazy couch time reminded of the days during my childhood when I was allowed to stay home alone when I was sick, while my mother worked in town and my dad worked on our ranch nearby. I was never lonely and enjoyed having the house to myself. My favorite solitary game was to pretend I was a shopkeeper, selling my mother's many pieces of fine china and Wedgwood to imaginary customers. After showing them around the built-in hutches in our dining room, I would unstick the pieces they selected from the shelves (my mother never dusted so things were pretty grimy), wash them, wrap them in newspaper and put them in grocery bags. I would continue this until mid afternoon, when I would unpack everything and put it back on the shelves. Strangely, I never once broke a single piece.
It took a few days after I got over my illness to get my strength and stamina back. On the first day back I did only one exercise block, then two and on the third day, finally the full set of four. This took a lot of patience, but I am slowly learning to trust my body, rather than to fight with it. Perhaps the most remarkable change is that I now look forward to exercise, at least most of the time. I am excited about what I can accomplish during the next two weeks before I leave for vacation. I plan to intensify some blocks. I may even attempt to jog for the first time!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Pleasant Distractions
The past few days it has been difficult sticking to my exercise regime. My daughter has been here, visiting from the opposite coast with three of my grandchildren. Their four cousins, who live nearby me, are besotted with the visitors and have spent most of the past four days and some nights here too. We had a great July 4th cook-out, with just the immediate family (18 people including the live-in mothers of my sons-in laws, Alicia and Jenny, the super sweet and competent au'pair. ) And then on July 5 my daughters organized a retirement party for me with fifty members of my extended family and a few of my dearest friends.
This huge extended family is a surprise. My father was an orphan and for most of his life had no older, living relatives. I had four first cousins on my mother's side, but they lived far away. I yearned for the extended families of the neighboring farm kids, but when I finally did get a chance to visit my cousin he grossed me out by throwing green mashed potatoes made by his schizophrenic mother or possibly my eccentric uncle, who was the first person I ever knew who cooked for his dog. My dad, and each of the succeeding generations, bucked the trend of declining birth-rates in industrialized countries, by marrying early and often, and creating large numbers of children with each union.
I do love the intimate chaos of my current family parties -- as long as they don't last too long. Inevitably there is a sour note, because I just can't keep from going crazy over my grandchildren and irritating my husband and sons-in-laws (and possibly others who are too polite to say so)by failing to set limits and catering to their every wish. I was a goner the first time I laid eyes on my oldest grandson. When he was born, my two auntie daughters and I kept searching for the right way to describe him. We tied "really cute," "amazingly cute," and "unbelievably cute," but these failed to describe his appeal, which was so intense it caused me to have a physical heartache. We finally hit on "unbearably cute." And now all seven are like this. It's just too much for me to take in at times.
So between three meals a day for this brood, two parties, and innumerable cups of juice, ice-cream treats, and band aids, it was hard to exercise. Stretching and floor exercises were out because they literally ran circles around me tripping on my limbs and using my protruding stomach as a trampoline. They also kept letting our two black labs into the room, so I was also covered with dog saliva.
My salvation was the swimming pool where, under the supervision of Jenny, my daughter and my husband, I was interrupted only ten times or so, as I did my water walking, lap swimming, and water stretching. I also counted as walking blocks trips to the super market and the natural history museum. So everyday except my my off days (Saturday and Sunday) I did my required four blocks. This might have made me feel virtuous were it not for the two cupcakes, three slices of wonderful retirement cake (a gorgeous almond cake with raspberry filling from the best cake bakery in town), and five peanut butter cookies that I have consumed over the past four days. If I am not in a diabetic coma tomorrow, I must eat very lightly and go to the track.
This huge extended family is a surprise. My father was an orphan and for most of his life had no older, living relatives. I had four first cousins on my mother's side, but they lived far away. I yearned for the extended families of the neighboring farm kids, but when I finally did get a chance to visit my cousin he grossed me out by throwing green mashed potatoes made by his schizophrenic mother or possibly my eccentric uncle, who was the first person I ever knew who cooked for his dog. My dad, and each of the succeeding generations, bucked the trend of declining birth-rates in industrialized countries, by marrying early and often, and creating large numbers of children with each union.
I do love the intimate chaos of my current family parties -- as long as they don't last too long. Inevitably there is a sour note, because I just can't keep from going crazy over my grandchildren and irritating my husband and sons-in-laws (and possibly others who are too polite to say so)by failing to set limits and catering to their every wish. I was a goner the first time I laid eyes on my oldest grandson. When he was born, my two auntie daughters and I kept searching for the right way to describe him. We tied "really cute," "amazingly cute," and "unbelievably cute," but these failed to describe his appeal, which was so intense it caused me to have a physical heartache. We finally hit on "unbearably cute." And now all seven are like this. It's just too much for me to take in at times.
So between three meals a day for this brood, two parties, and innumerable cups of juice, ice-cream treats, and band aids, it was hard to exercise. Stretching and floor exercises were out because they literally ran circles around me tripping on my limbs and using my protruding stomach as a trampoline. They also kept letting our two black labs into the room, so I was also covered with dog saliva.
My salvation was the swimming pool where, under the supervision of Jenny, my daughter and my husband, I was interrupted only ten times or so, as I did my water walking, lap swimming, and water stretching. I also counted as walking blocks trips to the super market and the natural history museum. So everyday except my my off days (Saturday and Sunday) I did my required four blocks. This might have made me feel virtuous were it not for the two cupcakes, three slices of wonderful retirement cake (a gorgeous almond cake with raspberry filling from the best cake bakery in town), and five peanut butter cookies that I have consumed over the past four days. If I am not in a diabetic coma tomorrow, I must eat very lightly and go to the track.
Friday, July 3, 2009
A Sense of Accomplishment
Today is Friday and I have completed the first week of my new program. I feel very proud of myself and strangely my body already feels different. I have been doing a lot of stretching and I feel as if I have elongated my backbone by adding air between the vertebrae. I seem to be sitting up straighter. The tension from between my shoulders is gone. I can see muscle definition in my forearms.
I have tried a number of activities this week, but my favorite is walking in the swimming pool. I love the sensation of the water surrounding me and supporting my weight. The pools where I exercise are neighborhood pools. One is the pool where four of my seven grandchildren swim on the summer team. I am dedicated to this swim team to the point of fanaticism. The summer meets are fun because I know all the families and can cheer for all the kids. Last year I even won an award for being the the most supportive fan. While I am walking I can wave to everyone. I am a bit of a celebrity there, not only because of my high-pitched screams during close races, but also because of the exploits of my grandchildren. I don't want to brag (don't believe this for a minute), but my eight year-old grandson has set two team records so far this summer!
The other pool is my neighborhood pool. It it is womb-like because it is protected by small hills and surrounded by trees. I know few people in my neighborhood, so while walking I fall into a trance-like state, not making eye contact, and pulling the warm, velvety, turquoise water toward me with each arm as I stride. I watch the clouds form and disperse in the summer sky. I feel totally happy doing this.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is walking on the track. I have to force myself to leave the house and I already feel tired and crabby by the time I park the car and make my way down the sidewalk and stairs to the field. The track itself is a pleasant. It is soft black asphalt that I wish would smell like the warm tar I loved as a child. But is smells like nothing. So far I walk three-quarters of a mile each time I go. This is exactly 20 minutes worth of exercise -- a "block" in my terminology. By the time I start the third quarter mile, my lower back begins to hurt and I feel anxious that I will be too tired to climb the stairs to the car when I am done. This is completely psychosomatic because today I walked for and hour and a half in the super market, doing a giant grocery shop in preparation for July 4th, and I felt just fine. This hatred of the track does not bode well because someday I will have to spend more time there if I want to reach my goal.
I am not going to worry about that now. Instead I am going to order another pair of running shorts and smugly enjoy my new spine.
I have tried a number of activities this week, but my favorite is walking in the swimming pool. I love the sensation of the water surrounding me and supporting my weight. The pools where I exercise are neighborhood pools. One is the pool where four of my seven grandchildren swim on the summer team. I am dedicated to this swim team to the point of fanaticism. The summer meets are fun because I know all the families and can cheer for all the kids. Last year I even won an award for being the the most supportive fan. While I am walking I can wave to everyone. I am a bit of a celebrity there, not only because of my high-pitched screams during close races, but also because of the exploits of my grandchildren. I don't want to brag (don't believe this for a minute), but my eight year-old grandson has set two team records so far this summer!
The other pool is my neighborhood pool. It it is womb-like because it is protected by small hills and surrounded by trees. I know few people in my neighborhood, so while walking I fall into a trance-like state, not making eye contact, and pulling the warm, velvety, turquoise water toward me with each arm as I stride. I watch the clouds form and disperse in the summer sky. I feel totally happy doing this.
On the opposite end of the spectrum is walking on the track. I have to force myself to leave the house and I already feel tired and crabby by the time I park the car and make my way down the sidewalk and stairs to the field. The track itself is a pleasant. It is soft black asphalt that I wish would smell like the warm tar I loved as a child. But is smells like nothing. So far I walk three-quarters of a mile each time I go. This is exactly 20 minutes worth of exercise -- a "block" in my terminology. By the time I start the third quarter mile, my lower back begins to hurt and I feel anxious that I will be too tired to climb the stairs to the car when I am done. This is completely psychosomatic because today I walked for and hour and a half in the super market, doing a giant grocery shop in preparation for July 4th, and I felt just fine. This hatred of the track does not bode well because someday I will have to spend more time there if I want to reach my goal.
I am not going to worry about that now. Instead I am going to order another pair of running shorts and smugly enjoy my new spine.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Day One
Today was the first day of my new life. I finished work on Friday, spent the weekend at swim meets, and woke up this morning with the alarm at 7:30 AM. I had not slept well and I felt like shit. My first thought was that I needed to call in sick. And then I realized with a rush of adrenaline, "I'm retired!"
I jumped out of bed, downed my first cup of coffee and told my friend, Alicia, who lives with my husband and me, that I would be ready to start at 8:30 AM.
OK. So everyone wants to know what is my plan? And everyone has many, many unsolicited suggestions. I should hire a personal trainer. I should join a health club. I should take a water aerobics class so I won't hurt myself. I should join a senior track team so I can train and make new friends.
Let's just say that I know myself well, and none of these ideas would work for me. I am a recluse or hope to become one soon. I once told my therapist that I would rather clean and organize my kitchen cabinets than attend a party of my friends. It's not that I don't like people. It's just that I like them in very short doses and one or two at a time. I absolutely hate clubs, and the idea of sitting through another meeting makes want to run down the hall screaming and pulling my hair.
I am also dramatically stubborn and independent. Suggest a book that you loved and I won't read it. Give me directions and I'll take a different route, which I am certain is shorter. Recommend a restaurant and I know I will find fault with the quality of the lettuce or the texture of the lady fingers in the tiramisu.
So a personal trainer is out because I won't follow directions. A track team is out because I would have to be friendly. And the concept of be flailing around in water aerobics with other fat people wearing flotation belts emphazing our large girths reminds me of the scene from Fantasia in which the elephants dance wearing tutus.
So I am doing this on my own. I am using the block method -- four blocks of exercise each day, five days a week. Each block must be 20 minutes or longer. Any type of exercise is OK. Today I began with stretching with Alicia to a woman's relaxation CD, which reminded me of the first 12 bars of Grofe's The Grad Canyon Suite repeated over and over again. I kept waiting for the clip clop but it never came.
Secondly to the pool for45 minutes of water walking. Then home for wholewheat pasta with pesto, and then back to the pool for a twenty minute lap swim (I had to rest several times in between laps, but I kept going, if only at a snail's pace). And finally 20 minutes of ballet in the water. This is not to be confused with water ballet otherwise known as synchronized swimming. When I do ballet in the water, I do bar work using the side of the pool, followed by leaps and squatting stretches resembling a Russian dancer. All this is possible with the water supporting my weight and providing balance assistance. Thank God the pool is large and no one seemed to watching.
So how do I feel after all this? Hungry, but not the least bit tired. I feel elated, even a little manic. I am not sure how long this feeling will last. I know I will crash at some point. But right now I plan to go with it and not ask a lot of questions.
I jumped out of bed, downed my first cup of coffee and told my friend, Alicia, who lives with my husband and me, that I would be ready to start at 8:30 AM.
OK. So everyone wants to know what is my plan? And everyone has many, many unsolicited suggestions. I should hire a personal trainer. I should join a health club. I should take a water aerobics class so I won't hurt myself. I should join a senior track team so I can train and make new friends.
Let's just say that I know myself well, and none of these ideas would work for me. I am a recluse or hope to become one soon. I once told my therapist that I would rather clean and organize my kitchen cabinets than attend a party of my friends. It's not that I don't like people. It's just that I like them in very short doses and one or two at a time. I absolutely hate clubs, and the idea of sitting through another meeting makes want to run down the hall screaming and pulling my hair.
I am also dramatically stubborn and independent. Suggest a book that you loved and I won't read it. Give me directions and I'll take a different route, which I am certain is shorter. Recommend a restaurant and I know I will find fault with the quality of the lettuce or the texture of the lady fingers in the tiramisu.
So a personal trainer is out because I won't follow directions. A track team is out because I would have to be friendly. And the concept of be flailing around in water aerobics with other fat people wearing flotation belts emphazing our large girths reminds me of the scene from Fantasia in which the elephants dance wearing tutus.
So I am doing this on my own. I am using the block method -- four blocks of exercise each day, five days a week. Each block must be 20 minutes or longer. Any type of exercise is OK. Today I began with stretching with Alicia to a woman's relaxation CD, which reminded me of the first 12 bars of Grofe's The Grad Canyon Suite repeated over and over again. I kept waiting for the clip clop but it never came.
Secondly to the pool for45 minutes of water walking. Then home for wholewheat pasta with pesto, and then back to the pool for a twenty minute lap swim (I had to rest several times in between laps, but I kept going, if only at a snail's pace). And finally 20 minutes of ballet in the water. This is not to be confused with water ballet otherwise known as synchronized swimming. When I do ballet in the water, I do bar work using the side of the pool, followed by leaps and squatting stretches resembling a Russian dancer. All this is possible with the water supporting my weight and providing balance assistance. Thank God the pool is large and no one seemed to watching.
So how do I feel after all this? Hungry, but not the least bit tired. I feel elated, even a little manic. I am not sure how long this feeling will last. I know I will crash at some point. But right now I plan to go with it and not ask a lot of questions.
Friday, June 5, 2009
My New Wardrobe
Every athlete needs clothes, and I am no exemption. Most large women don't like to shop, but I do. I am fascinated by "What Not to Wear, and believe that clothes are not just superficial but make a statement about who we think we are. For a fat woman, clothes are very important because they can convey a level of self acceptance which others will validate. A well dressed fat women sends a message , "I take myself seriously and you should too."
In order to make good on my plan to run a mile, I am retiring. June 30 is the big day, when I am 60, say goodbye to the office for good, and am reborn as someone obsessed by exercise rather than by watching TV. The only downside is that I no longer get to shop for work clothes. Fortunately, a whole new category of merchandise beckons --- exercise clothes.
Any big wardrobe transition requires a shopping trip to New York, so after a long bus ride, and a wonderful meal enjoyed by my yet to be reborn self, I hit Lord and Taylor. Why you may ask, would some one go to L&T for exercise clothes? The answer is a whole floor of plus size, well made clothing! Here I find the mother load of Kate Hill separates. Stretch cotton pants, T-shirts and sweat jackets so soft they feel like my favorite pajamas. I select a color palate -- black, royal blue and white, and I buy a set.
Back in the hotel, I model these for my friend who exclaims that they fit beautifully -- not too tight, yet not voluminous. And I feel like I am wearing pajamas they are so comfortable. I can't take them off. I wear them to dinner which means we have to go to a sports bar and eat sliders. The next morning before boarding the bus home, I rush back and buy another set.
Back home spring has arrived with the first spurt of warm weather. I need shorts. I search the web. I look on the Junonia site -- a brand for active large size women. The shorts look dowdy. Then I try Landsend and bingo! Beautiful shorts and yoga pants. And a singlet with a built- in bra in my size. I touch the purchase button and I am on my way to my new self!
In order to make good on my plan to run a mile, I am retiring. June 30 is the big day, when I am 60, say goodbye to the office for good, and am reborn as someone obsessed by exercise rather than by watching TV. The only downside is that I no longer get to shop for work clothes. Fortunately, a whole new category of merchandise beckons --- exercise clothes.
Any big wardrobe transition requires a shopping trip to New York, so after a long bus ride, and a wonderful meal enjoyed by my yet to be reborn self, I hit Lord and Taylor. Why you may ask, would some one go to L&T for exercise clothes? The answer is a whole floor of plus size, well made clothing! Here I find the mother load of Kate Hill separates. Stretch cotton pants, T-shirts and sweat jackets so soft they feel like my favorite pajamas. I select a color palate -- black, royal blue and white, and I buy a set.
Back in the hotel, I model these for my friend who exclaims that they fit beautifully -- not too tight, yet not voluminous. And I feel like I am wearing pajamas they are so comfortable. I can't take them off. I wear them to dinner which means we have to go to a sports bar and eat sliders. The next morning before boarding the bus home, I rush back and buy another set.
Back home spring has arrived with the first spurt of warm weather. I need shorts. I search the web. I look on the Junonia site -- a brand for active large size women. The shorts look dowdy. Then I try Landsend and bingo! Beautiful shorts and yoga pants. And a singlet with a built- in bra in my size. I touch the purchase button and I am on my way to my new self!
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Dreaded Physical Exam
Warning! Before undertaking any new exercise program always visit your doctor. For those of us who are really fat, this is huge disincentive. We imagine we have heart disease, cancer, diabetes, and almost every other disease that is contributed to by obesity. We also know we will have to get weighed by a stern, skinny nurse, and wear a paper gown that does not fit and gapes in the front (or back if you are man). Finally we know that our doctor will be horrified and speak to us condescendingly and put us on an impossible to follow diet of 1200 calories a day, consisting largely of boiled chicken. Mostly we know that it will be implied, if not just not plainly said, that we are lazy gluttons and that our bad habits are killing us.
My experience was just about this bad. I found out that I have diabetes (blood sugar 127) and because of this, need to reduce my blood lipids from a total cholesterol of 211. My doctor said my blood pressure was high, even though every other time I have had it checked recently, it has been an acceptable 120/70. I got in a huge fight with her, because she wanted to prescribe statins, which seemed premature since I am hoping my training will improve all these numbers. She wanted to send me to a nutrition class, but i told her I work with professional nutritionists and am quite familiar with a diabetic diet. She told me to take fish oil tablets and I told her I would even though they make me burp a fishy taste. And then she sent me for a stress test, and a bone density test. Why bone density? I always thought fat people naturally had thick bones ... for us life is a weight-bearing activity.
The idea of the stress test stressed me out. I cancelled it. Then I made a new appointment after having to plead with the receptionist to extend my referral , which had expired three days before. I was particularly concerned that either I would have to ride a stationery bike which really hurts my crotch, or that I would be asked to run on a treadmill until I was gasping for breath. And then while gasping, I would be told I needed a stent or at the very least a test where a bag of iodine is past through my groin into my heart.
But I passed! I walked nicely on the treadmill on the flat, and then up hill and then more briskly up hill, and then truly quickly up hill with electrodes all over by chest and sides, and really nothing happened. My heart rate went up mildly. My blood pressure stayed within the normal range.
I got the OK to begin to an exercise program. The nurse asked me what I intended to do, and I decided not to mention running in a track meet. "I will walk briskly," I told here (retaining what I had read in many brochures), "and once I loose some weight I may jog."
"Oh no," she said, "Walking briskly is good, but don't jog. It's too hard on the joints." I grabbed my passing report card, made my escape, and took the elevator down two floors to my car.
My experience was just about this bad. I found out that I have diabetes (blood sugar 127) and because of this, need to reduce my blood lipids from a total cholesterol of 211. My doctor said my blood pressure was high, even though every other time I have had it checked recently, it has been an acceptable 120/70. I got in a huge fight with her, because she wanted to prescribe statins, which seemed premature since I am hoping my training will improve all these numbers. She wanted to send me to a nutrition class, but i told her I work with professional nutritionists and am quite familiar with a diabetic diet. She told me to take fish oil tablets and I told her I would even though they make me burp a fishy taste. And then she sent me for a stress test, and a bone density test. Why bone density? I always thought fat people naturally had thick bones ... for us life is a weight-bearing activity.
The idea of the stress test stressed me out. I cancelled it. Then I made a new appointment after having to plead with the receptionist to extend my referral , which had expired three days before. I was particularly concerned that either I would have to ride a stationery bike which really hurts my crotch, or that I would be asked to run on a treadmill until I was gasping for breath. And then while gasping, I would be told I needed a stent or at the very least a test where a bag of iodine is past through my groin into my heart.
But I passed! I walked nicely on the treadmill on the flat, and then up hill and then more briskly up hill, and then truly quickly up hill with electrodes all over by chest and sides, and really nothing happened. My heart rate went up mildly. My blood pressure stayed within the normal range.
I got the OK to begin to an exercise program. The nurse asked me what I intended to do, and I decided not to mention running in a track meet. "I will walk briskly," I told here (retaining what I had read in many brochures), "and once I loose some weight I may jog."
"Oh no," she said, "Walking briskly is good, but don't jog. It's too hard on the joints." I grabbed my passing report card, made my escape, and took the elevator down two floors to my car.
Morbidly Obese Woman Trains to Run a Mile
In March 2009, as a devoted swim grandma, I attended the Junior Olympics to encourage my talented, smart, funny and focused young grandson in the meet. The warm-ups took forever, so I decided to explore the giant sports complex and found myself in the bleachers watching the US National Master's Track and Field Championship.
The first event was the mile for men 85 years and over. Three gentlemen participated. One ran smoothly save for a hitch in his gait. One ran and then slowed to a jog, and then sped up again to finish. The third, who was 93, ran only the first few yards and then slowed to a moderate walk. As each past my seat, I joined the audience, which consisted largely of other athletes waiting for their events, in clapping and yelling encouragement.
The meet continued, working backwards down the age groups, alternating men and women, until my group appeared, women 60-65. There were quite a few participants -- some who looked like seasoned athletes, others who looked as if they had taken up running later in life, but were built for it, and a few, who looked extraordinarily ordinary. They had upper backs sloped forward with post-menopausal humps, varicose veins, and legs that seemed flaccid and had no definition between calves and ankles. Despite this, all of them finished.
I could do this, I thought. Somewhere in me is an athlete, albeit buried deeply under layers of fat. I know I could run. I know I could look convincing in shorts and a singlet. I know I could go a mile.
This would not even have been a thought worth noting, let alone writing a blog about, were it not for the fact that I am 5" 3" and weigh 279 lbs. I am morbidly obese. I do an management job and sit at a desk all day. I love to eat. And I don't walk anywhere, except when I absolutely have too. I always take the elevator and avoid stairs. I spend lots of time looking for those close-in parking spots.
This blog is the story of my attempt to make good on my pledge to myself: to run a mile at some sort of organized track meet. I am writing it mainly for myself, to document my ups and downs. And to keep myself honest. I hope you enjoy my story.
Miriam
The first event was the mile for men 85 years and over. Three gentlemen participated. One ran smoothly save for a hitch in his gait. One ran and then slowed to a jog, and then sped up again to finish. The third, who was 93, ran only the first few yards and then slowed to a moderate walk. As each past my seat, I joined the audience, which consisted largely of other athletes waiting for their events, in clapping and yelling encouragement.
The meet continued, working backwards down the age groups, alternating men and women, until my group appeared, women 60-65. There were quite a few participants -- some who looked like seasoned athletes, others who looked as if they had taken up running later in life, but were built for it, and a few, who looked extraordinarily ordinary. They had upper backs sloped forward with post-menopausal humps, varicose veins, and legs that seemed flaccid and had no definition between calves and ankles. Despite this, all of them finished.
I could do this, I thought. Somewhere in me is an athlete, albeit buried deeply under layers of fat. I know I could run. I know I could look convincing in shorts and a singlet. I know I could go a mile.
This would not even have been a thought worth noting, let alone writing a blog about, were it not for the fact that I am 5" 3" and weigh 279 lbs. I am morbidly obese. I do an management job and sit at a desk all day. I love to eat. And I don't walk anywhere, except when I absolutely have too. I always take the elevator and avoid stairs. I spend lots of time looking for those close-in parking spots.
This blog is the story of my attempt to make good on my pledge to myself: to run a mile at some sort of organized track meet. I am writing it mainly for myself, to document my ups and downs. And to keep myself honest. I hope you enjoy my story.
Miriam
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