Image via WikipediaI run for Nutella. Let me clarify, by no means am I a professional runner sponsored by the brand. Does Nutella even sponsor athletics? Running (truthfully a steady slow jog-I’d be eaten alive if a man eating sloth were in pursuit of me) and I have a hate-love relationship.
I hate it when the treadmill seconds trickle by while the “I’m a beautiful skinny runner who is recording this voice over while running a 26er in heels” Nike+ app lady voice twists the blade that only .25 miles have gone by.
Once finished with my hated run and my eyes stop burning from the salty sweat-then I love it. The accomplishment of moving my fat butt a few miles and live to tell about it is a pretty good rush.
Yes, I’m that girl who starts races at the back of the pack. I envy the cute little muscular Garmin wristed gals who can run in those adorable running skirts without the need for Gold Bond Powder and inner thigh Band-Aids. I firmly believe my race times turn out better than expected because I am so mortified to be in skin tight running pants-though they are boot cut to balance out the hips.
Oh how I covet the Garmin wrist units. I myself plug my painful ear buds in, lug my Smartphone on my hip and pray it doesn’t pause during the run, a phone call come in or at worst the battery die!
Though I secretly dream of becoming a regular marathoner whose thighs don’t touch while I conveniently look at my wrist for my pace and heart rate, I am ok running solely to treat myself to a big ole spoonful (or 2) of Nutella at the finish line instead.