Running With Jelly

I have a new running route, as I discovered my old one is only two miles, which for a runner of my caliber is clearly under-achieving (poetic license). When I plan a new route, I decide on a point at which I will allow myself to stop and walk the rest of the way. Giving up before I've even started, I guess you could say - but don't, please - there's no need, thank you very much.

Last week when I did the extended run, I did, predictably, stop and walk at the allowed point. So imagine my delight this week when I managed to make it all the way around the extended route without walking and still feeling like I could go further! (That's actually not true. The thought fluttered through my mind for a second and was quickly attacked and destroyed by the other thoughts in my mind, which involved the sofa, my feet up and a large bag of nik naks).

But all this talk of running is really only so that I can share with you the horror of what I looked like during my run today. It being Sunday, the washing machine is on. The relevance of this is that my P.E. tops are in it. So scouring my drawer, the only top I could find was one that I used to fit into when I went to the gym four times a week. Not being that person any more, I no longer actually fit into it. In fact, it is not only too small now, but too short. And unfortunately, my only choice.

For a moment I am tempted to let this put me off going for a run at all, however with the size of my bum in mind, I reject this thought and struggle into the top. My stomach protrudes in an unsightly manner out of the bottom of the top. I stand in the bathroom mirror and suck it in. Hmmm, vague and rather poor improvement, however bereft of any further choice, I am going to have to stick with it.

As I progress through my run, I become gradually less able to keep my stomach sucked in, therefore gradually, I turn more and more into a wobbling mass, making its way at not particularly great speed up the street. As I near the finish line, I pass another runner going in the opposite direction. Much faster than me. I desparately try to hold in my bulging stomach, which is now protruding to an un-suck-inable extent and looks like I am carrying a large bag of raspberry jelly with me that I have tried to tuck in between my top and trousers. Feeling a bit huffy about the other running being better than me, I am (in a very adult fashion) tempted to stick my fingers up at him as I struggle past - damn show off.

I can tell you, I have never been more glad to see my house at the end of the street looming ever closer.