peer pressure.

Time: 5:45 am

Goal: gym

Stephanie: “Wake up.”

Me: “No.”

Stephanie: “Get up now.”

Me: “I don’t want to.”

Stephanie: “I’m picking you up in 10 minutes.”

Me: “Seriously. I don’t want to go.”

Stephanie: “Why?”

Me: “I don’t feel well.”

Stephanie: “That’s only because you don’t want to go.”

Me: “I’m tired.”

Stephanie: “So am I.”

Me: “Then go back to bed.”

Stephanie: “No. Because I already woke up to Boom Boom Pow coming from my phone.”

Me: “Well thanks to you I just woke up to I’m checkin it so hot so hot…”

Stephanie: “So you’re up. Good.”

Me: “No.”

Stephanie: “I will lay on the horn.”

Me: “You’ll wake up my roommate.”

Stephanie: “You think I care?”

Me: “Dammit.”

there is actual proof. sort of.

If you’d asked me three days ago, or a week ago, or a month ago, or EVER if I thought I would run 6.2 miles I would have said no. I would have perhaps laughed hysterically, taken another sip of my high in calorie beer, and said no. Rather loudly.

But Saturday morning at 5:30 am, as the first of 9 alarms went off, I was kind of thinking, “I might could do this. Maybe.” The doors were open between each room and all that could be heard were the different songs playing and the moaning of people as we listened to “wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, it’s the first of the month, so get up, get up, get up, cash your checks and come on.”

And if Bone Thugs can’t get you out of bed, I don’t know what can.

As I got dressed, pulling my hair up and out of my face, I looked at the brother and asked, “Do I look okay?”

“Yea, you look like you already ran,” he said. Asshat.

It wouldn’t be a day of the week if I weren’t subjected to the brother’s biting sarcasm.

So we set out. In the darkness. Piling into the back of the truck and heading over the bridge we would later run. Do we look awkward and sleepy? I think so. Well, with a few exceptions. But I will ignore him and every time he thinks merely pointing to the kitchen will mean I bring him back a beer.

Once we landed on the starting side of Shem Creek, parked at a friend’s house (that is in such a convenient distance to Red’s it is unreal) and started walking, I was actually ready to get moving. I mean, you don’t get up that early for NOTHING. And also, I mean, you don’t forgo a perfectly good Friday night of drinking for no reason whatsoever. So this best be worth it, I thought.

And it was. Because, mind you, if I think rain or freeze couldn’t keep me away from a perfectly good Carolina Cup people-watching-buffet, this was just the appetizer for the day. And the day was young.

And the night, of course, included oyster shots. LOVE.

love, me.

Dear tummy, stop making noises in staff meetings. You have been fed.

Dear McHottie, quit a) laughing when tummy makes noises or b) staring. It is not nice to acknowledge.

Dear love handles, please just go away. Nobody likes you or wants you. Or even needs you. So go.

Dear Grouchos, that STP today was AMAZING. Best one I’ve had in probably the last decade. Keep doing what you’re doing.

Dear crushed ice, um hello. LOVE you.

Dear Kenny Chesney, thanks for making me smile.

Dear Adam Duritz, have I told you lately that I love you?

Dear Martin Luther King, Jr., I would TOTALLY celebrate today. If I could. Oh wait, I am. Right after work. With a beer.

Dear coworker who did not come in today because you pulled your back out, we know your wife is off of work today.

Dear 5:30 am, we will not be friends again until I can get a decent night’s sleep. SO OVER not sleeping.

Dear air matress Saturday night, you would have been a-okay if there had also been heat on somewhere.

Dear annoying guy at Pearlz, I hate talking about politics. I hate even more talking about politics when alcohol is involved. But I LOVED making you uncomfortable when you talked politics to me and apparently didn’t know what you were saying.

Dear inventors of beer pong, I am SO good. Why did I stick to flip cup in college when I had all this talent? Gosh I’m so modest.

Dear friend, I miss you. A lot. What the H else can I do to make things go back to the way they were?

Dear heart, just shut up for a little while.

dear abs, where did you go?

It is January. Freaking JANUARY. And all I can think about is June. And July. And heat. I actually want the humidity back right about now. Gasp. (I realize 40 degrees to some people is really not all that frigid.)

One of my albeit many resolutions this year (or more so a necessity) is to actually get back in shape. Not to be able to run again without death closing in. And not to lose some pounds. Been there, done some of that. But to actually achieve that I know I can’t be a freshman in high school again but I’m a version of that. With hips. (Well, some.) Duh. And I think even slightly bigger boobs. Maybe. That makes me laugh.

Last night I went to Publix (and was somewhat disappointed by their limited Kashi collection) and gathered up some oatmeal to replenish my work stash and some lettuce to use for salads for lunch.

When I came home, the roommate had returned from work and was ready to launch into a discussion about how I go on a kick and then I exhaust myself and then I’m over it for a couple of weeks. And then I start anew. And how she’s lived with me through these and so “all things in moderation, Kristin.” She also routinely calls my mom “crazy” and reminds me that I have “food issues.” But I digress.

Her point was what again? I don’t think it’s that detrimental to my overall wellbeing if I feel like getting up and being at the gym at 5:30 am right now, and not, say, next week. I mean, that’s between me and my resolution contract. (Oprah once said to sign a diet and fitness contract with yourself. Tried that. Broke it. Didn’t feel guilty. Not signing my resolution contract.)

Moving on, last night I sat on my bed, totally enraptured by Bromance, and went through my collection of Self magazine. For what, you might ask? Perhaps an elixir to make either my thighs disappear or my abs reappear. That I sadly did not find.

But I’m sure I can find some new magazines to go through tomorrow.

paparazzi.

Last night I went for a run a little bit after 7. I’d needed it after following up my 9 hour work day with about an hour in Publix searching for bread crumbs.

I tied my shoes, started my ipod, and headed out the front door already running. When I got to the end of my street I turned at the middle school and rounded the corner, turning onto the next street.

As I ran, Everyday by Dave Matthews started playing.

I watched as two little boys, about 10 years old, headed towards me, side by side on the sidewalk. Something was going on at school that evening and I’d noticed it as I was on my way home and still the cars flooded the surrounding streets as I ran. An open house? Too early, I thought. Orientation? Way too late.

As I neared the boys, my focus became less about how to get around them with the fence on my side and more about what they were doing with their phones, each identical, each lifted up to their faces and presumably catching something.

Do 10 year olds know how to record videos on their phones?

My mind started flashing back to the schizophrenic on Raising the Bar Monday night. He’d seen a guy he’d argued was taking pictures of him on the street. A tourist, who later admitted he was, in fact, taking the man’s picture. “He had an interesting face,” he’d said. How unnerved I’d be, I’d thought as I watched the show.

As I came within about 10 feet or so of the boys I could tell their phones were clearly turning in my direction, one with a flash lighting up. I lifted my arm so as to cover my face.

I suddenly know how Britney Spears feels, I thought.

When I walked in the door from my jog, the roommate was cooking dinner.

“Let me tell you a story..” I started, walking into the kitchen.

“You know they weren’t trying to take a picture of your face,” she told me, after hearing me out.

I knew she was right. I knew it then, too. And when I’d lifted my arm I’d tried to not so subtly cover my chest. But come on! 1o years old? I had 2 bras on. I can’t help it if I bounce!

all things gym related.

The other day I walked into the gym just as the trainer was headed out. “I was about to put an apb out,” he said to me, his smile still there. He was insinuating I hadn’t been there lately.

“I’ve been here. Just a little later at night or you haven’t been here, like Sunday.” It was true. I had thought I’d see him one of the days but I hadn’t. And I had been working out. It’s been 2.5 weeks and I haven’t missed a day. Yet.

I was sitting on the hip abuctor machine the trainer calls the good girl/bad girl when the guy next to me reached over and touched my arm. I pulled out one of my earplugs to hear him ask me a question, him thinking I worked at Half Moon Outfitters because that’s the t-shirt I was wearing. When I answered no he asked, “Do you kayak?” He was looking for something and I suggested another store and we talked for, seriously, like a couple of seconds. “I’m Sean,” he said to me, reaching out his hand to shake mine. “Kristin,” I said.

The next day I saw him in the gym he was riding a bike. He waved and I smiled.

There is a guy at the gym that I see every night when I go later to work out. He is about 6’5″ and he stays in the free weight area most of the time, except for once when I saw him walking on the treadmill one afternoon. He wears hats. Once a newsboy cap. The next day a baseball hat. His 5 o’clock shadow is always there. And so are his muscles.

I wonder, sometimes, if every gym has that one guy you can watch while you do a machine, as he does pull ups or lifts weights with ease.

Last night, I walked into bunko still in my gym clothes, wearing a long sleeve shirt over top.

“Hey skinny minnie!” The girls called to me when I walked into the house. “You look good! You’ve lost weight!” They said those words to me.

“Have you weighed yourself?” One of them asked me.

“I’ve only lost like 6 pounds,” I said, smiling but still feeling like I wish it were more. I wish I could say 10 or 15 or somewhere closer to my goal.

But I guess there are other rewards along the way.

be still my sweat.

I walked in the gym slowly, gradually, making my way towards the front. I saw that the trainer was talking to someone, though he looked up and smiled at me as I headed that way. Taking his advice from the previous day, I made my way to the weight machines. Arms – Legs – Abs. When I finished up, I walked back by the front desk to head towards the cardio machines.

“I’m hurtin’,” I told him, as I went to walk by.

“From yesterday?” His big grin was fixed on me as he asked the question.

“Yea – I think a mix of the weight machines and the way I did the stair stepper yesterday. My calves. Ah, they hurt.”

“I’m telling you. One word: Arms.”

“Yea, I know. I just don’t ever really know what to do with free weights,” I told him. I’d told him that before.

“Hey – all I wanna do is hang out with you. Show you what to do. I told you that yesterday and you were all eh.”

“Well.. you know.. I didn’t want to take up your time,” I said, in truth. I wasn’t really sure when he came to me as I did a leg machine and talked about the free weights and how he could show me what to do, that he meant then, right then. That he meant I wasn’t going to have to pay the whatever it was going to cost for him to help me.

“I was offering.” He was still smiling.

“Okay, then. Next time I come in and you’re not talking to someone I’m going to come over and say, Hey, what are you doing? Want to help me?”

“And I’ll do it.” How matter of fact.

iiiiiidiot. (say it like napoleon.)

Cute Boy (who maybe needs a new, less favorable nickname) came by my office this morning before he headed to a meeting he was attending in my building.

“How much weight have you lost?” He said it, right when he probably should have been saying “hi hello.”

And then he kept going. “50 pounds?” Yea he asked me that. HE ASKED ME IF I HAD LOST 50 POUNDS.

“Um. No. 5,” I answered. Five. F-I-V-E. Fiiiivuhhhh.

“Really? I can tell. Thought it would be more like 50!”

“YOU THINK I HAD 50 POUNDS TO LOSE!!??”

Holy shiz.

getting somewhere.

Yesterday morning I sat at lunch with my parents at the club. The sun was out and Mom was talking to some friends as the waiter came around with the bottle of wine Dad ordered. When he got to me, I declined.

We rose to fix our salad. Mine of lettuce, cheese, bacon, and egg with a little bit of vinaigrette. The conversation flowed with my parents and my dad’s best friend and his wife, who had joined us. Next it was time to fix our plates for a main course.

I got a slice of meat, rare. And there were some scrambled eggs. I got them in there for the protein. Then the green beans which looked delish. And lastly, a little bit of some chicken and a little grouper. I avoided the carbs. The grits, the potatoes, the bread. The things Mom didn’t really point out to me as she served herself in line before me.

When it was time for dessert I remained seated. “You’re not going to get any?” I was asked. “No.” When Mom came back to the table with her key lime pie she looked at me, “You don’t want any?” “No,” I told her. “You told me no sweets.”

“Well will you go get me something chocolate so that I can have a little bit of each?” She asked me.

“No.”

As we were leaving someone whispered into my ear. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you look thin.” “Thanks,” I told him.

“Are you coming over?” Mom asked me. “No.”

When I left I went and ran errands. I went to the sports store to get overgrips for my tennis racquets. I went and bought a couple of cds. When I got back to my house I changed clothes and headed to the gym.

There were just a few people in there. Me, on the stair stepper, a guy on an elliptical, someone working the front desk, and a trainer with a client by the free weights. I did the stair stepper the way the trainer I met with Saturday morning would have been proud of me for. Then I sat on a bike to ride while reading Names My Sisters Call Me, which I would finish later in the evening.

When the trainer finished with the girl, then at the weight machines, and went to walk downstairs with her, he tapped me on the shoulder as he went by me. “You on weekend duty now?” He looked at me as he spoke, turning his head as he walked. “Trying for every day duty,” I replied.

In my peripheral vision I watched as he headed back upstairs a couple of minutes later, coming past me and walking behind the counter to fix a smoothie. I could smell the aroma of fruits as it punctuated the room.

As he walked by me again, he tapped me on the shoulder once more. “You really come here every day?” His lips turned upwards as he asked. “I’m trying to, yea. I’m on a mission.” A mission, at the moment, involving sweat emissions down my face. “Well you look good,” he told me.

And suddenly I felt good, too.

"namaste."

My yoga class tonight at City Yoga was all that I needed and more to relax. I needed to relax. Desparately. After the roommate and I left, we decided to take Todd the dog for a walk. Another, much needed, event. As we’re cruising around the streets of Heathwood, the roommate says to me, “I think I just got peed on by a squirrel.”

“What?”

“Well I felt a drop of something wet on my hand. Sudden.”

“And you automatically think squirrel pee?”

Granted it had gotten dark out and there were no other guilty parties to blame. No sprinklers going that I could see or hear. A few minutes later, the roommate says, “Ah. It’s starting to rain.”

“Imagine that.”

I have to tell you though that through it all, my level of relaxation was so on. I think this yoga course will do me good.