Run, fat girl, run

In an effort to lose this pesky 70 extra pounds I'm toting around on my stomach and ass, I've decided to work out religiously on my husband's days off. Today I was getting ready to go to the workout room at our apartment complex and my husband starts asking me about my progress. As in, how fast I can run now. I looked at him with a confused expression. Run? I don't run. Ever. I've tried it and I hate it fiercely. I hate the heavy breathing and the way all my fat bounces violently as I pound away on the treadmill and I know that even though I am busting my ass and my lungs are going to explode, to the observer I just look silly, like a fat person trying to run through knee deep snow.

Anyway, it's hard to explain this to my husband. He's 6'1" and weighs 175. He's in the army and it's part of his job to stay in shape. And it's infuriating because he's one of those assholes who can eat 10,000 calories a day and not put on any weight. His whole family is like that. I feel like Gulliver or the giant from Jack and the Bean stalk when we go visit his family, a diminutive clan of people who live in a house stock full of every snack and guilty food pleasure you could ask for.

So I just told him that I'm doing my best. I did a 37 minute stationary bike workout and then just for kicks and giggles, I got on the treadmill and cranked it up to 5.3 mph, which according to Adam, should be a light jog. For the first 30 seconds I was ok, despite my fat and boobs flailing about. I was thankful no one else was in the work out room. After 1 minute and 27 seconds I was gripping the rails of the treadmill and punching the red Emergency Stop button for dear life. My distance? .12 miles. That's half a lap around a track. I would fail an army physical test with flying colors.

And guess what Adam brought home for lunch? Carl's Jr., goddamit.