Yeah. No way I’m going to keep up with that. But that’s okay. I’ll just go at my own pace. Nice and easy. Here we go. There, see? I’m doing it. I’m running! Hey, look at me! I’m running! I’m—
Okay, well, that’s enough of that. Whew. I mean, a girl could hyperventilate from doing that. And seriously, it’s my first day. Don’t want to overdo it.
Also, I think I felt something come loose back there. I’m not trying to overreact or anything, but I think it was my uterus. Honest. I think my uterus jiggled free.
Is that even possible? I mean, could my uterus just come sliding out?
I seriously hope not because these yoga pants slash leggings aren’t tight enough to hold it in. I got the extra large instead of the large because I figured, you know, no one would be able to see my cellulite through them if they weren’t skin tight.
But now my uterus is just going to come out between my legs and I’m going to look like I’m walking around with an enormous load in my pants.
Maybe it wasn’t my uterus. Maybe it was just my ovaries. But that’s okay, since I’m not really sure I want kids anyway. I mean, yeah, it might be nice, but what kind of mother would I make, really? If it weren’t for my ex-boyfriend’s family black sheep of a brother letting me live rent-free on a floor of his brownstone in exchange for doing all the billing and bookkeeping for his private detective agency, I’d probably be living in a six-person share in Long Island City right about now, barely making it to work before noon every day, since I live approximately a two-minute walk from where I work as it is, and I hardly ever make it there before nine.
How am I going to handle nurturing an actual living human being who is totally dependent on me for all its needs?
Look at my dog! I mean, I left my dog at home instead of bringing her here to the park with me for my morning jog because she was still sleeping and didn’t want to get up when I got up. Even when I rattled her leash. What kind of mom would do that? What kind of mom goes, “Okay. Whatever” when her kids tell her they want to stay home and sleep instead of go to school?
I’ll tell you want kind. The kind you see being led away in handcuffs on the evening news, going, “Git that camera outta my face!”
Namely me.
Seriously, though. That’s how early I’m up. So early my own dog expressed no interest in getting up and joining me. That’s really sad.
Especially since Lucy doesn’t know about the big shock she’s shortly headed for: Ever since Cooper let my father—the ex-con—move in, Lucy’s been living the high life, thanks to Dad’s habit of whipping up gourmet dinners and taking her on long rambles all over the city (in exchange for the free room and board, Cooper had Dad tail a few of his clients’ soon-to-be exes. Dad thought he looked less conspicuous hanging around outside the Ritz if he was walking a dog).
But now that Dad’s reconnected with his old business partner, Larry, and the two of them have cooked up this new super-secret plot to get them “back in the music biz,” he’s moving on up… not so much to a deluxe apartment in the sky, but to the second bedroom in Larry’s co-op on Park and Fifty-seventh, at least.
Which believe me, I’m not complaining about. Sure, I’m sorry to see Dad go—it was kind of nice to come home to an already walked dog and home-cooked meal every night.
But how many nearly thirty-year-old girls do you know who still live with their dads?
Still, if Lucy knew how shortly her gravy train was about to end, I bet she wouldn’t have been quite so blasé about taking a walk with me this morning.
Excuse me. A race-training jog.
I think Lucy might actually have had the right idea though. Once you get past the part about ogling all the cute tenure track assistant professors in their running shorts, this jogging thing is lame. I think I’ll just walk. Walking is excellent exercise. They say if you walk briskly for half an hour a day, you won’t gain weight, or something. Which isn’t as good as losing weight. You know, if you need to.
But it’s better than nothing.
Yeah, walking is good. Of course, all these people are careening past me. Sporty people. Their uteruses clearly aren’t falling out. How are they keeping theirs inside? What’s the secret?
“Heather?”
Yikes. It’s Tad.
“You okay?”
He is jogging beside me, pretty much in place, because I’m going so slowly.
“I’m fine!” I cry. “Just, you know. Pacing myself. Like you said.”
“Oh.” Tad looks concerned. “So… everything is all right?”
“Everything’s fine!” Except my uterus. Or ovaries. Whichever. I hope Tad doesn’t plan on having children. I mean, with me. Except through adoption. Because I think all my equipment fell out back there by the dog run.
“Um,” Tad says. “Okay. Well… ”
“Go on,” I say cheerfully. Because I’m very careful not to let Tad see my real morning persona. Because he’s not ready for it. Yet. “I’m good.”
“Okay,” Tad says again. “See you.”
He takes off again, fleet and golden as a gazelle, his ponytail bobbing behind him. Look at him go.That’s my boyfriend, I want to say to the size zero who comes whipping past me, in her tiny running shorts and seventeen tank tops. (Seriously, what is the point of the layered tank top look? And you can tell one of those tank tops is a sports bra, which, excuse me, she does not need, not actually having breasts. Me, I’m the one who practically suffered an eye injury back there, when I tried to jog a few steps.)Yeah. My boyfriend. He’s hot, right?
Oh, hey, look. I made it all the way around the park! Once. And okay, I walked most of the way, but still. Only eleven more times to go! Yeah, this 5K thing will be a cinch. I wonder why Tad’s so hot for me to do a 5K with him anyway. It can’t be just that he cares about me and wants me to be healthy, can it? Because I just went to the health center for a physical and I am totally fine. A little in the overweight zone with my BMI, but who says the BMI is an accurate indicator of health anyway?
Except the U.S. government.
Well, I guess a couple that runs together stays together…
Only not, because he’s like five laps ahead of me.
Make that six.
How did I let him talk me into this? Oh, wait, I know how… I just want him to like me. And since he’s a fit, health-conscious person, I want him to think I’m one, too. It’s amazing I’ve managed to keep him going this long… almost three months. Twelve weeks the guy and I have been going out, and he still thinks I’m the kind of girl who runs 5Ks in the morning for fun, and not the kind of girl who takes baths instead of showers because I’m too lazy to stand up for as long as it takes to wash my hair.
Okay, well, that’s enough of that. Whew. I mean, a girl could hyperventilate from doing that. And seriously, it’s my first day. Don’t want to overdo it.
Also, I think I felt something come loose back there. I’m not trying to overreact or anything, but I think it was my uterus. Honest. I think my uterus jiggled free.
Is that even possible? I mean, could my uterus just come sliding out?
I seriously hope not because these yoga pants slash leggings aren’t tight enough to hold it in. I got the extra large instead of the large because I figured, you know, no one would be able to see my cellulite through them if they weren’t skin tight.
But now my uterus is just going to come out between my legs and I’m going to look like I’m walking around with an enormous load in my pants.
Maybe it wasn’t my uterus. Maybe it was just my ovaries. But that’s okay, since I’m not really sure I want kids anyway. I mean, yeah, it might be nice, but what kind of mother would I make, really? If it weren’t for my ex-boyfriend’s family black sheep of a brother letting me live rent-free on a floor of his brownstone in exchange for doing all the billing and bookkeeping for his private detective agency, I’d probably be living in a six-person share in Long Island City right about now, barely making it to work before noon every day, since I live approximately a two-minute walk from where I work as it is, and I hardly ever make it there before nine.
How am I going to handle nurturing an actual living human being who is totally dependent on me for all its needs?
Look at my dog! I mean, I left my dog at home instead of bringing her here to the park with me for my morning jog because she was still sleeping and didn’t want to get up when I got up. Even when I rattled her leash. What kind of mom would do that? What kind of mom goes, “Okay. Whatever” when her kids tell her they want to stay home and sleep instead of go to school?
I’ll tell you want kind. The kind you see being led away in handcuffs on the evening news, going, “Git that camera outta my face!”
Namely me.
Seriously, though. That’s how early I’m up. So early my own dog expressed no interest in getting up and joining me. That’s really sad.
Especially since Lucy doesn’t know about the big shock she’s shortly headed for: Ever since Cooper let my father—the ex-con—move in, Lucy’s been living the high life, thanks to Dad’s habit of whipping up gourmet dinners and taking her on long rambles all over the city (in exchange for the free room and board, Cooper had Dad tail a few of his clients’ soon-to-be exes. Dad thought he looked less conspicuous hanging around outside the Ritz if he was walking a dog).
But now that Dad’s reconnected with his old business partner, Larry, and the two of them have cooked up this new super-secret plot to get them “back in the music biz,” he’s moving on up… not so much to a deluxe apartment in the sky, but to the second bedroom in Larry’s co-op on Park and Fifty-seventh, at least.
Which believe me, I’m not complaining about. Sure, I’m sorry to see Dad go—it was kind of nice to come home to an already walked dog and home-cooked meal every night.
But how many nearly thirty-year-old girls do you know who still live with their dads?
Still, if Lucy knew how shortly her gravy train was about to end, I bet she wouldn’t have been quite so blasé about taking a walk with me this morning.
Excuse me. A race-training jog.
I think Lucy might actually have had the right idea though. Once you get past the part about ogling all the cute tenure track assistant professors in their running shorts, this jogging thing is lame. I think I’ll just walk. Walking is excellent exercise. They say if you walk briskly for half an hour a day, you won’t gain weight, or something. Which isn’t as good as losing weight. You know, if you need to.
But it’s better than nothing.
Yeah, walking is good. Of course, all these people are careening past me. Sporty people. Their uteruses clearly aren’t falling out. How are they keeping theirs inside? What’s the secret?
“Heather?”
Yikes. It’s Tad.
“You okay?”
He is jogging beside me, pretty much in place, because I’m going so slowly.
“I’m fine!” I cry. “Just, you know. Pacing myself. Like you said.”
“Oh.” Tad looks concerned. “So… everything is all right?”
“Everything’s fine!” Except my uterus. Or ovaries. Whichever. I hope Tad doesn’t plan on having children. I mean, with me. Except through adoption. Because I think all my equipment fell out back there by the dog run.
“Um,” Tad says. “Okay. Well… ”
“Go on,” I say cheerfully. Because I’m very careful not to let Tad see my real morning persona. Because he’s not ready for it. Yet. “I’m good.”
“Okay,” Tad says again. “See you.”
He takes off again, fleet and golden as a gazelle, his ponytail bobbing behind him. Look at him go.That’s my boyfriend, I want to say to the size zero who comes whipping past me, in her tiny running shorts and seventeen tank tops. (Seriously, what is the point of the layered tank top look? And you can tell one of those tank tops is a sports bra, which, excuse me, she does not need, not actually having breasts. Me, I’m the one who practically suffered an eye injury back there, when I tried to jog a few steps.)Yeah. My boyfriend. He’s hot, right?
Oh, hey, look. I made it all the way around the park! Once. And okay, I walked most of the way, but still. Only eleven more times to go! Yeah, this 5K thing will be a cinch. I wonder why Tad’s so hot for me to do a 5K with him anyway. It can’t be just that he cares about me and wants me to be healthy, can it? Because I just went to the health center for a physical and I am totally fine. A little in the overweight zone with my BMI, but who says the BMI is an accurate indicator of health anyway?
Except the U.S. government.
Well, I guess a couple that runs together stays together…
Only not, because he’s like five laps ahead of me.
Make that six.
How did I let him talk me into this? Oh, wait, I know how… I just want him to like me. And since he’s a fit, health-conscious person, I want him to think I’m one, too. It’s amazing I’ve managed to keep him going this long… almost three months. Twelve weeks the guy and I have been going out, and he still thinks I’m the kind of girl who runs 5Ks in the morning for fun, and not the kind of girl who takes baths instead of showers because I’m too lazy to stand up for as long as it takes to wash my hair.
