Currently Chasing: A Place to Throw UP!

I worked out today. Now, I don’t say this to sound simple. It was anything but. Most of the time when I say I worked out, I mean that I went to the gym, watched TV while pedaling a bike, and threw a couple of weights around. Other times when I say I worked out, I mean that I stepped on my Wii fit and hula hooped for 30 seconds. And still other times when I say I worked out, I mean that I worked myself out of a size 10 and into a size 12.

But today when I say I worked out. I mean it. I got up at butt crack:30 and was at the physical training site by 7 past fuck this. I wasn’t going to go. I was going to flake out and stay in bed. But I had put on my facebook status last night that I was going to PT today. So I was accountable to myself, and the 300 other people on that site who barely know me, have never met me, and who hated me in high school. Who would have thought facebook would make me a more responsible person.

So there I am, surrounded by 50 or so other people all ready to do the same thing. Run laps around a parade field while simultaneously carrying 30 pound bags of sand. You may be asking yourself, “Why would anyone want to do this?” And the answer is, “Nobody wants to fucking do this!” And by the way, we are in groups of six and the goal is to basically race. Really? Race? Cause I’ll tell you right now, A turtle with three legs could probably whip my fucking ass in a race at this point. My eyes are still glued together with sleep sand for fuck’s sake.

So we start. We don’t all have to carry the bags the entire time. We carry it for as long as we can before handing it off to someone else in the group. So we make the first lap (each lap is a half a mile) and I don’t even touch the bag. I don’t even almost pretend to want to touch it. Although I’m tempted to just stab it with something sharp…I’m sure you can guess why.

On the next lap it gets handed to me. Good Lord it’s heavy. I begin to talk to myself while I’m running. And by running I mean, shuffling along like there is a rubber band holding my legs together. The dialogue goes something like this:
Me: Fuck this thing is heavy!
Me: I want to throw it on the ground.
Me: Don’t fucking throw it on the ground, you’ll look weak.
Me: Fuck it. I don’t give a fuck.
Me: Come on, it’s only a half a lap.
Me: That’s a fucking quarter of a mile!
Me: I’m a fat piece of shit!
Me: I’m going to vomit and then pass out in my vomit.
Me: …………………………

So needless to say, it was a nightmare. In the end there were still those masochistic men who carried the sandbag the entire time and kept a sprinter’s pace. But you know what? When is that ability going to help me in life? I’ve been carrying around 30 extra pounds of fat and waste most of my life and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere!

Granted, I’m not sprinting with it. I’m mostly just taking it out to dinner and asking it about its day.