Welcome to my world! Got any snacks?

Welcome to my new blog, which is about being an athletic work-in-progress, which is to say that I am neither currently at my fittest, nor at my fattest. 

You don't have to be thin to be an athlete. You just have to do the work and kick some butt.

I have now returned, somewhat cautiously, to semi-hardcore levels, to running and lifting and all the sweaty stuff, after an injury last year and a sordid affair with cheese. (I still see cheese sometimes, but we have an understanding).

I am not where I want to be, speed or weight-wise. But it's better than it was six months ago. And when I see people who knew me at my fitness heyday, about two years ago, they think I'm a fatty. I had this nasty girl who was in my marathon training group pass me on an escalator say "Are you still running?" and then say, under her breath "Guess not."

Yes, I heard you. And while I can lose weight, you will probably still suck.

At the height of my nutty runner-ness, I was clocking a nine-minute mile, usually finishing 5Ks at around 28-29 minutes and having absolutely no problems flashing a little midriff.

Possibly inappropriately at times.

But I digress.

I was never the fastest, or the thinnest, in any of my age groups in races (I once came in second at a race that most of the usual suspects skipped to run a longer race the next day, and, had I run it a week later when I turned 35, I'd have come in seventh.)

But considering that I was not an athlete in high school or college, or for most of my 20s, that's not bad. Actually, it's awesome. I was so NOT an athlete in college that a) I was referred to as "The Fat Twin," and actually told by a not nice old lady at my church that she was happy I was now fat because she could now tell me from my sister and b) my fit parents bought me running shoes and a pink track suit for Christmas, suggesting a family run/walk around the lake, during which my sister and I, who were 19, chatted at such a slow crawl that we were lapped by our 43-year-old mother. Twice.

But I was a gym rat, off and on, and in 1997 ran my first 5K, which was all up hill and nearly killed me. I was hooked, because I understood that the more I ran, the more I could eat. If you had told me that the more I studied math in high school, the more pizza I'd been able to snarf, I wouldn't have had to take the Stupid Math in college, the non-credit class you had to take to qualify for Basic Math.

And when I moved to Florida in 2002, I discovered that everyone was thinner than they were in Central Pennsylvania, which makes since, because the official animal of Pennsylvania is pork. I quickly went on a crazy diet and lost a lot of weight, working out obsessively, losing my hips and boobs, wearing a 6, and worrying my mother. But things got better (and less scary thing) when I went crazy with the running, mostly because in 2004 I moved to an apartment with no gym. I ran with a friend who pushed me, and we did our first half marathon in 2004, in the pouring rain. And in 2005, I trained for and ran/walked/crawled the full Baltimore Marathon, the last 11 miles of which I had a nasty leg cramp and wished to die.

But then somebody bought me a funnel cake, and everything got better.

Anyway, I did another two halfs, a bunch of 5ks and 4 milers, and the 8-mile leg of the Knoxville Marathon with my whole family, during which I had to catch up with the clown who denoted the end of the race. But we ran that clown down, man. We ran his chunky shoe-wearing butt down but good.

But then came the injuries and the mid-30s, and then the post-mid 30s, and the cheese and the Happy Hours that turned into dinner and more drinks and a gazillion calories before bed. And that's just the nachos. And by May, around the time I got dumped (I will give that whole relationship as much time as he gave it before cheating on/dumping me. And...we're done!) I joined a new gym and realized that I weighed...get this...

You might want to sit down....

180 pounds.

At my thinnest I weighed 146. Seriously. Of course, this time, it was a combination of fat and muscle, which shocked my new trainer, who initially just assumed I was a fat girl with no fitness. When I lifted a bit and ran without getting winded, he looked at me and said "You're so strong" which translates to "What did you do to yourself?"

But in six months, I've lost a lot of inches, including a bra size, am back in clothes I never thought I'd wear again, and decided to let go some others that I'm never, ever going to wear again. Ever.

I haven't been on the scale much because it just confuses me without knowing the body composition, but I reckon I'm somewhere near 170. When I get back from my vacation I'll let you know. There will be cheese. But also running.

Run on, y'all.