I can’t tell you what had me thinking about this. Maybe it’s because it’s officially summer here in Florida and I’m having to look at bathing suit options. Maybe it’s because I’m just under 5 months to my cruise with Ryan and Dawn to see them get married. Maybe it’s because I think too much. But all I do know is that it’s been on my mind for a while now again…
When I suited up to go running yesterday morning, I paid attention to what I was putting on. XL Champion brand running shorts. 2 medium Champion brand compression sports bras. (That’s right: TWO. I have been BLESSED) and a size large tech shirt from the Tour de Pain: Extreme. My medium sized running socks were slipped on before my size 8.5 Mizunos. And of course a headband.
Sizes like that sound incredibly odd considering. What do those sizes tell you about me? They indicate that I’m bottom heavy, that’s for sure. Two sports bras mean big tatas. But other than that, it should just say this: Jamie is a runner.
But to some people, it’s more than that…and it’s time that we stop letting numbers and letter cloud our accomplishments.
I talked about this before, and I know that it will always be something that I talk about. That whole “you don’t look like a runner” thing. I sure as hell look like one when I have sweat pouring all over me as I run my ass off over the downtown bridges that are currently kicking my ass. I sure as hell look like one when I check my watch for my ten second rest break at the end of a tough sprint. And I sure as hell look like one with the stack of race numbers on my counter, the pile of medals hanging from my display shelf, and the miles logged into my DailyMile to boot.
But looking at me right now, in my size 14 jeans (which are too big right now) and my XL shirt over my tank top I don’t look like a runner.
It’s frustrating when you are reminded just how much you DON’T look like a runner. It’s one of two types of people that do it: those who are deliberately being cruel to make themselves look and feel better, and those who don’t mean to be rude, are genuinely curious and end up hurting someones feelings by accident. I usually encounter the latter. But the other day, I encountered the kind that makes me want to throw punches.
Sure, the old adage of “sticks and stones…” might hold some truth to it, but at the same time WORDS HURT TOO. Especially if you are 33 years old and are desperately trying to make a come back from a medical issue that left you yo-yoing your diet in a way that was rewarding at first and now frustrating. Like I didn’t know that I looked bad with my fat swinging everywhere as I ran the bridges. Oh, by the way, when was the last time you did the bridges? Right, never. Shut the hell up, douche.
Truth of the matter is this: Size DOESN’T matter. If you are healthy, fit and doing the best damn job you can,
then you deserve a pat on the back and an ‘atta boy, girl. Or…. ‘atta girl, boy. Or…whatever. You deserve praise. You are doing the work, and you are taking care of yourself. That is what is most important.
Everyone else who doesn’t believe that, or see that…well, there is always a punch in the nuts.