I’ve recently (i.e within the last week) decided to get my flabby ass back into shape. It’s ironic really, since six months ago I told my husband I did not want to be the hot wife with that fat husband. That was my way of jump starting his motivation into working out. Six months, and about 20 lbs later, Hubby Dearest has a six pack, chisled pecs and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. And he says I gave him a complex by calling him “Fatty McFatfat” all the time. Complex my ass you ass. I’m the reason he’s got the body of a 22 year old when he’s pushing 30.
Suck it Fat Boy Slim.
So, now that I’ve got the cuntygoodnessoftheday out of the way, I’ll elaborate further on a more interesting topic. Me.
To bring you up to speed today I went for a 2 mile run in the middle of a rain storm, in the middle of a state park which also houses a camp for way ward kids. Seems like a grand idea when you just got laid off and denied a loan.
So, about a mile into my run, I hear crashing and huffing in the underbrush to my right. I stop, bend down and listen. It stops. So does my breathing. I know that huffing. What the fuck?
A bear? (do we have bears on Cape?)
Can I out run a bear? I’m currently working a 15 (suckfest) minute mile, how fast do grizzly bears run? Shit, can they climb trees? I know black bears can climb trees, but can grizzly bears?
With Lady Gaga to keep me company one ear bud in, the other wrapped around my sweaty icky sports bra I huff on as fast as my former smoker/RA riddled body will take me. Sometime around my 1.5 mark I start to hear it again. Loud. Whatever the fuck that thing is it’s either stuck in some Stephen Kingesque spider web and can’t get out, or it really is a mother fucking grizzly bear and I’m totally fucked.
I need a weapon. What did they teach me in survival training? Curl up and die? Bears don’t eat dead meat, so I have to pretend like I’m dead. I look at the wet, cold, nasty ground and I can hear my Rheamie doc telling me I’ll catch my death if I lay in a puddle.
Like I said, I need a weapon. Since the wet, soggy tree branch I decided on won’t depart from the tree trunk I settle on a rock thats the size and shape of both my fists.
I begin running again. This time with “Poker Face” and being to sing very loudly along with Lady Gaga for another half a mile until I can see my car. And the Park Ranger emerging from the woods to my right with a black trashbag slung over his shoulder.
How fucking creepy is that!?
There could be body parts in that trashbag for all I knew.