the gazelle and the basset hound.

I feel like this story could also just be a more dramatic and modern "tortoise and the hare" tale, but I like this better.

When I first signed up for Weight Watchers Online, I realized quickly that "activity points" (which are just what they sound like - extra points you can eat, earned from exercise) were God's gift. The more I accumulated, the more I felt at ease about staying within a range of points. I started experimenting with cardio at the gym and latched onto the treadmill since it seemed to give me the biggest bang for my buck. Because I had been lacking on the exercise in general, I saw results automatically, and was pleased to see fat melting off my legs and waistline. I continued to push myself farther at every run - first completing a 5k on the treadmill, then moving my runs outdoors where I was disappointed to learn that the treadmill had given me a false impression of what running was really like. I began from square one again, and when I moved into my first apartment on my own and got a dog that had more energy than twin 2 year olds, I had even more reason to hit the pavement with her.

Fast forward to January 2011. I ran my first half marathon and completed my first actual 5k race the previous fall. I should probably note that my runs are not stellar. I combine walking and jogging methods, and because of my short legs and the fact that I'm not a size 2, I'm lucky to run an 11 or 12 minute mile on a good day. Due to lack of proper training (and probably three month's worth of alcohol buildup over the months leading up to the race), my body pretty much quit after that race - I got sick, refused to leave the bed and flew home from my extended vacation in Florida following race day.

Weight loss and exercise has been a struggle for me since April 2010. I buckled down to run my half that winter since I had already committed, but the days between runs were filled with fried food, bar hopping and otherwise not taking care of myself. After the race, I spent the next year yo-yoing back to a number on the scale I vowed to never see again. I'd push myself for short phases, getting up for 2-3 weeks straight to run with the dog, or buckling down at the gym, but nothing would stick. I began to loathe my runs. I'd like how mentally satisfied I felt afterwards, but would dread the runs themselves. My body would hurt for days, and I couldn't get motivated to form any kind of habit. I began to envy those people who look like gazelles when they run. The ones who make it look so effortless, who can have a whole conversation mid-run, who lap me in a matter of minutes. They get the high, I imagine. They must be rewarded for this pain somehow, and I'm not feeling ANY reward. I'd burn out after hardly just beginning. Maybe I need another race. Maybe I'll sign up for the Disney half marathon again. So I did, and I'm still registered to run it this upcoming January.

This past spring, I self diagnosed myself with plantar fasciitis. If you've had it, you know exactly what I'm talking about. And no, I'm not a crazy WebMD person, but since multiple members of my family suffer from it, it's safe to say that I'm right in my diagnosis. Friends and family told me - don't run.  It's the worst possible thing to do - since this problem really centers in on your heel, I was pretty much an idiot to think I could keep pounding my heels on the pavement and magically fix the problem. I finally gave up and figured maybe the critics are right (shocking, right). Instead of running, I tried Zumba and a couple strength training classes at the rec center.

Oh. My. God.

How did I ever run? I am a basset hound. Seriously. The picture above? That is me, to a T. No, not the sporty Asian girl. The basset hound. Galloping. Slobbering, Sweating. Wagging my fat back and forth down the sidewalk. Eyes bulging. Not breathing.

Since giving up running, I have fallen in love with my exercise routine. I had been notoriously shy of classes because I've always gone to sporty gyms with super fit people who have nothing to do but workout all day. I've been intimidated by incredibly fit people. And don't get me wrong - the girls in these classes I go to are FIT. But I'm comfortable there. I love going, and I've got myself working out 6-8 hours a week now. Do you know how LONG that is for me? I've kept the same routine for over a month now, and I can't imagine my life without these classes. I ran a 5k a few weeks ago and was not at all shocked to see how poorly I did. And I hated it. HATED IT. I mean, it wasn't even FUN. Getting passed by all these god damn gazelles and feeling so totally worthless - and not even having the motivation to improve? No thank you. I'll take my Zumba and weights any day.

Since this realization, I've been grappling with the idea of not running my half in January. At this point, I'm perfectly content not running it. I am having tons of success with these classes - I've noticed changes in my energy levels and in my body. I hurt after my workouts, but it's a good hurt. Sore. Burning. Success. Not the aches and pains in my knees and hips that make me never want to get out of bed in the morning. And that stupid plantar fasciitis isn't gone yet, but it's finally manageable. When I was running, I could hardly get out of bed.

Am I breaking up with running? I don't know. Probably not. But I'm not a gazelle. I've wanted to be one for so long, but I've come to terms with being a basset hound. A sloppy, droopy eared basset hound. I'm good at a lot of stuff, and maybe running isn't one of them. I was so infatuated with becoming a "runner." The name holds so much power in the fitness world - like runners rule the world or something. I'm jealous of that ability. And I've demonstrated that I can achieve a goal if I want to (hellooooo, I ran 13 freaking miles). But just because it sounds good, just because it looks good, just because I get to walk around telling everyone I'm a runner, doesn't mean I like being one deep down. And that's okay.