I didn't mean for it to happen like this...

I received an email asking me if I wanted some free stuff. Free stuff? I thought. Like, d'uh. TOTES. Turns out the free stuff was from Reebok. I furiously googled to see if by some small chance Reebok had started manufacturing raspberry-vodka or kittens. It didn't seem that way.



Yeah. BUMMER.



So I got a big package in the post. My job was to try some of those fancy trainers that tone your bum when you walk. I've seen the advert once, and that was enough. I imagined walking around my own kitchen in see-through Victoria's Secret knickers and silver trainers. My brother called recently to say he had seen the advert for cream to stop the top of the legs chafing. I'd probably be better suited that ad. He had called because it reminded him of me, he said. Thanks, Jack.







Anyway, the trainers aren't what's important here. Reebok were very lovely and sent me some clothes to wear whilst testing the trainers. I've never owned proper sportswear before- there was a phase when I was 17 where I went to the gym five times a week, mainly because I was yet to get a boyfriend and passing hours at home wanking off wasn't really an option. I got rid of my teenage horn by achieving rock-hard abs in the way only a 17-year-old can. But I always just wore old tracksuit bottoms and whatever tee-shirt I could find. I looked at hot mess, and I didn't care. In hindsight, maybe if I had scrubbed up a little better I would have snagged me a bloke instead of wasting valuable eating-frosting-right-out-of-the-tub time.



Then this past few months I began working out again because my friend Megan got me drunk on St. Patrick's Day and took advantage enough so that by 10 a.m. the next morning I was wearing last night's mascara and trainers, lifting weights before a full-length mirror. And the thing with Megan is that she looks like butter wouldn't melt but MY GOD does she push a bitch HARD. I was too afraid to even consider suggesting that next time we just get a bag of sweet popcorn, a couple of Bud Lights and use the bench press to sit and watch American college boys get hot and wet under the strain of the ab cruncher. So, without even realising it, I sort of... well... began working out again. Which, thank you, I don't need you to tell me INTERNET, is sort of hilarious. In fact, three sets in to walking dumbbell squats two days later I thought exactly the same thing. FUCKING HILARIOUS. And then my right bum cheek fell off.



It's just a pair of capri-pants and a v-neck tee-shirt that they sent, but it was in this breathable, stretchy, elastic-y material that made me feel all Kim Kardashian when I tried it on. Well. At least until I looked in the mirror.



I know hearing somebody talk about their work-out schedule is the same as pretending to be interested in other people's dreams ("There was like, you know, my old headmaster there, but he WASN'T my headmaster, but I knew he was, even though he wasn't, you know?") or how many points a banana has on a red day or a green day. But these clothes, THEY CHANGED MY LIFE. Running in them, I felt free and cool and when I got home after my first run (Dad: "bet you can't run up onto the moor and across back down to the road." Me, on returning from the challenge whereby I nearly died from the steep incline multiple times: "You can piss off if you think I am doing that again") I could- almost- have done it all again. It was just a pleasure.



I realised that I had crossed over to the dark side when one evening I fell as I ran. I was in a field. With cows. That wanted to eat me. And as I had been running I had just been thinking how much I was enjoying it, and strong and womanly it made me feel when UH-OH! my foot hit a rock at a funny angle and sloooooooooooowly, heavily, I went down. And on the way down my knee hit my iShuffle and turned it off so it was literally just like in one of those movies where the heroine is in one second walking down the road listening to Ricky Martin sing about living a crazy life to a hot, phat beat and then SILENCE. Nothing. Total quiet as something happens to make her life change forever. A zombie, probably. Or an ex-boyfriend. And then I hit the floor.



Of course I had quite obviously sprained my ankle. And I was about a mile and a half from home. And I wanted to cry because I am pathetic. But let the record show that I didn't, your honour. I DID NOT CRY. Next I'm going to try to make it through the night without bed-wetting.



But two-weeks without running was just AWFUL. I missed it. I was cranky and mean to people- waaaaay more than normal. So then I did something really stoopid.



I decided if I loved running so much, I should train for a race.



Me. Running. In public. In a race. We're back to that pointing and laughing thing now.



I signed up for a 10k. I sort of have this idea that I might work my way up to a half-marathon but considering that I can only run for about 30 minutes right now- and run slowly. Very, very slowly- I might have a bit of a way to go. I researched it after the fact, and apparently a 10k means running for 90 minutes. NINETY MINUTES.



For every step of that way I am going to blame those black, stretchy capri pants. Fuck you, Reebok. NINETY MINUTES? FUCK YOU.