When I started writing this column I couldn’t run farther than next door, so last Sunday it was time to see how far I’d progressed. Could I run ten miles? Could I slam my hand repeatedly in the door? Seriously, though the ten miles took me two hours – a life time – but I finished, and the hard day’s running made me realize a couple things: one, I needed to increase my speed since the dead crabs were passing me by, and two, I had to figure something out about my thighs. When I lurched across the finish line, numb and unable to walk in normal bipedal fashion, my husband pronounced that I’d rubbed my inner-thighs bloody, and didn’t I look a mess. I hadn’t noticed it happening because I was distracted by the feeling that all the bones in my feet were going to split apart and leave me with shoes full of hamburger.
My husband, as helpful with my running as he is, suggested that if I trimmed down my thighs they wouldn’t rub. But, I wondered, if running 10 miles doesn’t cancel out the doughnuts I eat while standing in line at the grocery (would someone please move those?!) then what will?
The answer? Weight training and a big tub of Vaseline to rub on my thighs. I tried starting with some simple squats and lunges, but by the end of the day I was having trouble lowering myself into a chair. The next morning I crawled down the stairs. Day two and I knew I had to bite the bullet and go for a jog. I also knew if I were to run my normal loop I would surely turn around before the half-way point. Luckily, I have a husband that is about ready to give me away and was only too happy to drive me five miles and drop me. He thought he’d heard the end of me and this column, but my Vaseline and I fooled him.
Fifty minutes later I arrived home a sweaty mess, no blood in sight and surprisingly less sore, if not a little greasy. He, on the other hand, was furiously cleaning the passenger seat of his car. Yet another thing I’ve learned: wait until you arrive at the starting line to apply the globs of Vaseline.