I live in a highrise building filled to the brim with 20-somethings. Spilling over with women (girls) who stand before unforgiving mirrors, pinching an inch (or 1/10 of one) and proclaiming “Argghhh! I’m so fat“!
The sun is just rising. I stumble to my laundry basket and retrieve the attire.
I wiggle and push and smush myself into my grey spandex leggings, too small Under Armor sports bra, cute Nike tank (cute might not be the appropriate adjective for any tank top over a size 4), unmatched white socks (can’t tell if I push one down just a little) and my neon “running” shoes.
I run. ….to the fridge, to the phone, to catch a cab. So I figure I earned the shoes.
Tugging my cute Nike tank down – because it keeps rolling up – I throw back three Advil and head for the gym.
My favorite treadmill is in front of a window. It has a TV, FM and a view. But not only do I get to be motivated by the fit people whizzing by outside looking sexy and sweaty in a way that only professional athletes can, but I have 27 different views of my ass.