Distance: 3 miles
Speed: 11 minutes/mile
Weight: 120 lbs.
Music: Oh, Inverted World by The Shins
After enjoying the great outdoors on Tuesday, running on the treadmill seemed like a chore. I got bored really quickly, and I felt like it was more difficult to find my natural pace than it was on Kelly Drive. I think treadmills with all of their buttons and measurements can make you more likely to try to force yourself to run at a predetermined speed rather than "listening to your body." I hate how new-agey that sounds, but it's true. Sort of like weight/body image -- it's better to go by how you feel, how your clothes fit, etc., than by the number on the scale.
Which brings me to the number on the scale. I know I've said before that I'm not running to lose weight, and I'm really not. I'm doing it because I want to be physically fit, because I want to take preventive measures against health problems that have plagued my family, and because in some weird way, I'm starting to enjoy it. That said, WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH GAINING A POUND?
I'm more active now than I've been in years, possibly ever. I know genetics are working against me. I'm short, pear-shaped, and come from a long line of Italian and German women whose love of pasta and potatoes have made them more closely resemble Kate Smith than Kate Hudson. And I am the first to admit that while I try to stick to a relatively healthy diet most of the time, I definitely consume my share of fries, cheese, and beer. But I'm also running between 10 and 12 miles a week, I walk to and from work every day, and I live in a house that forces me to run up and down a godforsaken spiral staircase to go from room to room. What gives?
I'm glad I'm doing something to benefit my overall health. But improving my resting heart rate doesn't make my ass fit into my jeans any better.