Fat People Running

It's fat people running. It's babies dancing. It's me mountain biking.

Haven't been keeping up with this blog lately. There has just been way too much badassing and working to fit it in. Plus, my mind is becoming strangely clear and quiet from all the physical activity. Just got back from mountain biking, though, and on the tail end of my ride, I saw a fat man running. He reminded me of why I started this blog. I'm here to pay homage to that brilliant period of time when you are doing something that you are so unprepared for that you look ridiculous. You keep on doing it and you start to look great. I feel so inspired when I see fat people running. There bodies aren't trained. They are soft and lack aero-dynamisticity, but they are giving it a go. I love knowing that if they keep running, their bodies will adjust to help them run better. They will change their composition.

Babies dancing is springy, full of joy, but let's face it. The kids are shit for rhythm. Doesn't mean we shouldn't let them kick out the jam.

The New Yoga

Stretching in a bath. Try it.

I Play Co-ed Soccer

I joined a co-ed soccer league today. There are are couple of types of co-ed teams here in Jackson. Some are full of college athletes and some are full of people drinking beer on a field. I was lead to believe that I was going to a game with a keg. As my coercer, Anna, and I approached the first field, our eye-brows shoved our foreheads together in confusion and horror. These couldn't be the people we were supposed to play with. They had uniforms. They had coordination. We were not part of they. The games are held at the high school stadium, which gives some context to Anna's next statement: "Wait. I think those are actually high schoolers." What are relief.

The last time I played soccer was in third grade. I was on a team that scored one goal all season, and it wasn't scored by me. Sports with teammates and balls have always intimidated me. On the swim team, the only person you let down is yourself. If you happen to space out pretending to be a dolphin, a ball isn't going to hit you in the face. Both facts comfort me. Co-ed soccer only appealed to me because I figured if I was drinking, being hit in the face would be more understandable and less painful. As we pulled up to the other field, my eyebrows got pushy again. Wait. These people look pretty good too. They weren't in formal uniforms, but they did have specific shoes and socks designed for soccer. There wasn't a keg in sight. Nobody even looked like they had been drunk earlier in the day. Unfortunately, this was it.

Being co-ed, I guess it's hard to get enough girls. If the dudes happen to get enough girls to form a team, three, they are at high risk of losing the girls because they will have to play the whole game. Even though my knowledge of soccer ends with kick the ball with the inside of your foot, I was welcome, as a girl. Playing soccer, while still being flinch and cramp inducing, is pretty fun. And I'm going to keep it up. At least until I get nailed in the face by a ball.

I don't want your rules. I don't even want my own. :My hair

For large spans of my life I seemed like the type of girl who was about to chop all of my hair off into a boy short cut. Spunk, sexual confusion, admiration for Gwyneth Paltrow in the movie Sliding Doors, I don't know. People asked for it. I considered it. La di da di da. Never happend.

I needed a rule to launch me in: Cut my hair short when I was thin enough to have the cheek bones to support it. I was thinking being a waifish pixie was my ticket to the androgenous carnival of modern fun and amusement. For the first time in my life, I'm being confronted with accidental weight loss. I'm riding my bike and climbing mountians, and I'm just dropping weight. This is weight that I was happy to carry around. I stored it in my pants and pranced it around proudly. Now, it's leaving me. As with most of my plans and expectations, turns out, my rule blows. A pixie cut is the farthest thing from a solution.

If my body is going to muscle up and drop signs of feminity there is only one solution: Bigger, Busslinger, Possibly Brighter Hair. Watch out. I may start teasing the shit up.