Wake Up Call

You know from my previous post that I harbor no delusions about being fat, but it wasn't until recently that I came in to the profound knowledge of just how out of shape I truly am.

I have two dogs.  One is verging on the cusp of perfection, while the other is stubborn, hyperactive, and at times seemingly possessed by demon spawns.

After much reading, patience, discipline, praise, and a failed attempt at an exorcist, I agreed to attend a dog training class with my neighbor. I was slightly reluctant at first, because I was afraid I would be embarrassed by my dog's spaztastic behavior... and the class required me to get up early.  But, my neighbor convinced me by appealing to my ongoing canine frustrations.

At the start of the class the militant instructor directed us to form a line, make our dogs sit, and not to allow any contact between the dogs. 

Success!  My dog sat like a champ. 

The next task was to have our dogs jump up and down pillars as we ran them in circles.  

I anxiously watched as each person before me took their dogs around the pillar course. Some dogs mastered the course in one go, while others had to be coaxed using treats and praise. I was certain my dog would be in the latter category. 

I was wrong. My dog flew through the course exuding obedience and athleticism. 

As we finished the course I was overjoyed with pride and happiness at my dog's achievements. 

I stood there slightly out of breath from jogging, excited about the next round of dog training.  Once again we were instructed to line up and have our dogs sit. Once again my dog was a rock star. She sat with the best of them. 

My confidence was exponentially increasing, until reality set in and team fat-demon began to go awry.

In a single file line we all began to quickly walk with our dogs in hand. 

It didn't take long before the pace started to overwhelm my elephantine body. 

The farther into the "walk" the more I struggled. The more I struggled, the more pain I felt. My legs became heavy, as if I had two little people holding on to them for dear life. My heart pounded like a buffalo stampede, and I struggled to  gasp for just enough air so that I wouldn't black out.

Slowly I began to think I might die.

 

Then, to my horror, the instructor shouted for me to rest.  I think it was the combination of extreme duress my body was feeling coupled with the complete embarrassment from not being able to keep up (there were a few elderly people amongst the group), that caused me to break down in tears, which only caused me to want to want to die even more.  There I was, a woman in her 20s, unable to keep up with people over twice her age, and now I was crying like a school girl who had been picked last for kickball. 

The shame I feel everyday as an obese person flooded over me.  I felt embarrassed and worthless, and that I was letting my poor dog down. I wanted to retreat, dissipate, evaporate, fall into a tar pit.  I just wanted out of the public eye, so I could cry in humiliation alone.  But no, my neighbor and the instructor's right hand man insisted I finish.  I relunctanly continued sniffling a mjority of the way.  Every step I took was a harsh reminder of what I have done to my own body.

Toward the end of the walk, the instructor had made everyone wait so that I could catch up.  I hung my head down as I approached the group.  Now it was time for sprints.  "Great", I thought, "now I can finally pound that last nail into my coffin of embarrassment." 

When it was my turn to sprint, I overrid my bodies desire to succomb to weakness, and I gave it everything I had.  Just as I was approaching the end of the course, my legs began to slow down, when suddenly a slight "pfft," escaped. I had farted mid-stride.  I'm not sure if the poot gave me a little extra lift off, or if I was too afraid to stop for fear that my stomping and grunting would no longer cover the sound of my fart, I finished the sprint without stopping or having to walk.  For that, I thank the fart. 

The instructor congratulated my perserverance,and the group clapped at my ability to not die.  My neighbor and I were encouraged to come back, and told it would be beneficial if we purchased fannypacks to carry dog treats in during our training.

I agreed to come back, but I was hesitent to buy a fannypack, because it is a FANNYPACK!  I may be fat, but I still have style.  I grudgedly perused Amazon, and found a purple fannypack I felt was as acceptable as a fannypack could get. "Click," I purchased the fannypack and awaited its arrival. 

When I finally received my purple fannypack, I was somewhat excited to try it on, so I could see just how ridiculous I would look with it on.  

To my horror:  It didn't fit.  Now, not only had I had purchased a FANNYPACK, but it was mocking my inablity to wear it.  Even with the straps as long as possible, I could just barely get it to click into place, and even then, it was practically cutting me in half. 

 Luckily I am crafty, so I was able to make my own belt extension, but this incident furthered my desire to lose weight.  I long for the day when I can jog and not die, and won't mocked by something as lame as a fannypack. 

This has officially been my wake up call.