In an effort to change things up, I decided to go to the Y for a swim this morning. I put on the sleekest swimsuit I owned*, grabbed the bag I packed the night before, and headed out.
When I got there, I hesitated. The lap pool was full of be-goggled swimmers with fancy handfins. I was pretty sure a lifeguard was going to tap my shoulder and say, "'Scuse me, ma'am, could you make room for the real athletes?"
Then I remembered Rule One of the Slow Fat Triathlete: abandon self-consciousness. I got up at 5AM. I suited up and drove myself. A lane was free, and I had every right to be there and move.
So away I went. Twenty solid minutes of back and forth crawling and backstrokes. I gave up when I was winded and my arms ached. This is another area where I'm going to need a lot of work, but you gotta start somewhere.
After I was done, I didn't even bother dressing. I just wrapped myself in my towel and drove home. When I got there, Miss noticed that I had done something different. I told her I had gone swimming, and she made sad noises that she and Daddy didn't come. I told her it wasn't to play, it was to work--although the work was fun to a degree. Then she noticed what I was wearing.
"Momma, is that your racing swimsuit?"
I haven't even run a true 5K yet. I can barely sustain five minutes of running. To consider a triathlon someday is really ridiculous at this point, right? Or is it an okay dream?
"Maybe so, hon. Maybe so."
* AKA the one without the skirt that hides my fat. Or that I fool myself that it does.