I love vacations because you get to unwind. Sleep in. Eat real meals. And in Australia we had such lovely meals, starting with rich mochas and lattes followed by plates of eggs, bacon, sausage, tomato, mushrooms, and heaps of buttered toast. We didn’t go hungry in Australia. And we didn’t really think about the consequences. Or we did, but pushed some thoughts out of mind and quickly had a second helping. Or in my case, thirds if it was my favorite dessert, the luscious meringue and passion fruit drizzled Pavlova.
I love the Pavlova.
And the Pavlova loves my hips.
So I’m back running. Slowly. Kind of speed walking. Kind of walk-jogging. I was never cut out to be a runner and my current running shoes just leave me aching and injured.
Tomorrow I’ve vowed to get a new pair, but in the meantime I provide my younger son with endless entertainment as he sits at the track and watches me do my 8-10 laps.
Today I made the mistake of making eye contact with him as I passed by.
He puts his hands somewhere in front of his body and moves them around.
I run slowly, wincingly towards him to retrieve my water bottle. ‘Hey.’
‘You’re uh, bouncing,’ he says. ‘Your chest.’
I know this kid so well and he never changes. ‘Yes, I know. Those are called boobs.’
He’s seven and a half and such a smartass. ‘Okay.’ Then he nods across the track. ‘And that lady in black and white has lapped you.’
I could hate him if he weren’t flesh of my flesh. ‘Yes, she’s a real runner.’
He gestures to a lady walk-running past us now. ‘And she’s just passed you by. And I don’t think she’s a runner.’
I screw the plastic cap on my water. It must be so fun to be young and fit and lazier than sin. ‘She passed me by because I stopped to talk to you.’
He shrugs, lies back on the grass. ‘Whatever.’
And if you’d been there to read my mind it would have said, ‘Little bastard.’ Followed by, ‘I’m wishing I hadn’t eaten so many Pavlovas now.’
But I did eat the Pavlovas. And the eggs and bacon and buttered toast. Also the two mochas a day before I remembered to order skinny lattes (not half so fun!). So I’m crammed back into my jeans, and trying to wean myself off 9 meals a day and attempting to drag myself off to the track for a daily jiggity-jig.
Or as my dearest son Ty would tell you: A jiggly jog.
By posting a comment, you consent to have your personally identifiable information collected and used in accordance with our privacy policy.