By Wendy Litner

I used to think that I had a really fast metabolism but it turned out I was really just in my early twenties.  As I approach my thirties, I have sadly noticed that I can no longer maintain my five-to-one junk food to exercise ratio.  The only problem is that I like junk food a whole lot more than I like exercise.  Every day for the last year I have vowed to get up and jog before work, but find myself negotiating one snooze after another with my bitch of an alarm clock.  But while I am still working on forcing myself to go for just a leisurely morning stroll, my peers are so passed walking they are running.  Endurance running to be more exact.  It seems that once you marry, establish a career and buy a home the next logical step is to run a 10k marathon.  And then post your ungodly speed on facebook.  It was clearly time to stop sleeping my figure away and pick up the pace.  

Despite my new found enthusiasm, when my sister-in-law, Michelle, proposed that I train with her for a 5k run at the Toronto zoo, I was seriously worried about my chances.  The last time my husband and I endeavoured to jog our way into shape together, we ended up walking to the Dairy Queen up the street instead.  Our most intensive exercise to date has been to buy an ice cream flavour called chocolate peanut butter iditarod.  

Working a full-time job, keeping house and raising two beautiful children, sans nanny, Michelle is a paragon of dedication.  And while I also work and have a house to keep, one small dog and one smaller cat are all I have to speak of in terms of parental responsibility.  My arduous office hours were no longer a reasonable excuse.  It was time to start running. 

Failed morning jaunts aside, Michelle insisted that with proper pacing and training I could become a marathon runner in no time.  I wasn’t going to take this lightly.  I was going to be fully engaged and committed to running.  I would be partaking in the Iron Man competition in no time.  

Step one, of course, was to pull together a cute little outfit.  As my mother used to say, “In order to be good at something you need the right tools.” (And although she made this statement in the context of criticizing my tired makeup brushes, I firmly believe it still applied.) 

Step two, was to run.  When I arrived at Michelle’s for my first day of training in my new pants, fresh exercise tank and matching sweat band, I was ready.  And fabulous.  We started off down her street at a light pace and I felt more energized than I had in a long time.  Buoyed by my feet bouncing rhythmically off the pavement, cushioned in my pink exercise socks, I felt light as air.  I basked in the early morning sunlight and savoured the slumberous sounds of the neighbourhood before the houses began to stir.  My legs feeling increasingly limber, I began to pick up my pace, propelling myself forward with the wind at my back. 

And just as we turned the corner at the end of her street, approximately 1.5 minutes from the starting line, I started to wheeze.  Heavily.  My lack of breath quickly developed into a full blown asthma attack, which naturally progressed into a firmly held belief that I was dying.  Hunched over pathetically with hands on knees, I pleaded with Michelle between gasps to go on and save herself.  Undeterred by my desperate panting, she heroically agreed to walk with me at a light pace the rest of the route home. 

As we walked together I was comforted by her sisterly promise to tell everyone I ran the whole way, but found myself nevertheless fighting a rising wave of frustrated shame.  While the majority of my day is sedentary, I had no idea just how out of shape I had become.  Had I sacrificed my figure at the expense of my career?  I had thoroughly convinced myself that the only thing standing between myself and my former physique was just a little motivation.  Motivation, however, clearly needed to be paired with hard work and I wasn’t entirely certain I had the time or the wherewithal anymore for such laborious efforts.   

As we rounded the last corner and headed home my breath finally began to slow and as my chest eased so too did my grief for my formerly fit self.  I can’t just give up after one go!  After all, if Confucius is right and every journey really begins with just a single step then I am well on my way.  If I can just keep one foot in front of the other then I can keep on moving forward.  And with just the right amount of gumption and trendy attire, who knows, by next summer I might even make it a whole two blocks.