The War on Pants

One and a half miles in the pool. Sixty laps in fifty-seven minutes. The chlorine doesn't bleach my hair so much as make it feel like a mass of wool dipped in tar. The Damen bus skipped right past me at Polk. I ran three blocks to catch up to it at Malcolm X college, trying not to feel too bad if I didn't. I assume I could fit in just fine at the MX campus. I'm white but I have soul.

I still feel fat.

Six miles on a treadmill on Wednesday. Twenty more to go before the long run is long enough for October. January second, my co-worker Nick signed up for the Chicago marathon. I waited until July last year. Registration closes at 40,000 runners, so the deadline is flexible, kinda. I needed a paycheck for the ninety bucks it costs to sign up. I missed it by a week. They won't catch me flat footed this year. Pun not intended. I signed up two months ago.

Another co-worker, Alicia, sees me in the hallway. "Did you gain weight?" she asks, perfectly innocently. "I mean, you look good..." Brandi promises to kill her.

I joined a gym. Two gyms, actually. The YMCA gives me a place to play racquetball with my honey, run, lift weights, do the elliptical trainer, hum along with the Village People song and feel bad for the residents who probably don't think it's all that fun to stay there, all close to home. After work, I can walk down to the University gym, which I joined almost the same time I signed up for the marathon, and swim to my heart's content in the 75 yard pool. Wintertime, not as many people feel like dipping a toe in so I usually get a lane to myself. Other swimmers make me competitive. How dare the guy in the Hulk underoos swim trunks flip kick faster than me? I answer by speeding up. I work up the water-analog of a good sweat. Another facility on West Campus gives me choice and a slightly longer pool. New facility on top of the old tennis courts Brandi and I used to sneak onto until they started padlocking them and almost as an afterthought tearing them down. Soon, I won't have to get too worked up to get my worked out.

That's soon. Last week, I bruised my waist on my old pants. I just could not believe how big my waist had gotten and how quickly.

We bought a car. I got depressed on night and ate almost an entire Jewel big cookie, a cookie about the size of a medium pizza, with frosting. I eat cookies or cake after every lunch. You don't have to be too religious to see that some things happen for a reason.

Still, tonight I swam a mile and a half. It's a start. As that weird Mortal Kombat guy who could morph into all the other characters except Goro said, "Finish him."

By him, I mean "it". And by "it" I mean, "getting healthy" and also "the Chicago Marathon: opening salvo in the war on pants".