The goals last week were to lose a pound, and to run five times.
I lost a pound.
And I ran five times. I covered, over the course of the longest run, 5 km, 3 of which I actually ran. On the way home, as I turned into our street, instead of collapsing in a heap of palpitations and nausea, I started to sprint.
It is strange to watch my shadow flowing beside me in the grass. I can move so fast? I feel like an animal. I am the mortal envy of my lumpish younger self, who didn't eat because she was convinced that she would not be able to do anything worth fueling for.
Tim rode beside me, measuring our pace with his bike computer. He said, "You're much faster. More than that, you're fast."
(Also this week, I bought a pair of school sweatpants. For running. In size small. This is double-time dream fulfillment, since when I was little, the coolest girls were the skinny ones who went around with the names of their universities on their bums.)
I am terribly disappointed that I won't be able to run this week. I pulled a tendon connected to one of my hamstrings last night, and need to let it heal. (Ha! A runner's injury!) Instead, I'd like to ride my bike four times, jump rope three times, stretch daily, and journal my food intake/hours of exercise again after a bit of a lapse.
As for longer-term goals, I need some new ones. By Christmas,
I would like to weigh 150 pounds.
I would like to have gone swimming with Laura.
I would like to have had people over for supper.
I would like to be able to do 10 push-ups in a row.