The State of the Meat Suit: Now With Asthma!
I've said it before: I was not born to run. I thought that it was perfectly normal for running to involve about ten minutes of relative comfort, followed by a sensation not unlike trying to breathe while drowning in the Arctic Circle. This sensation continues for however long I can stand it - usually another twenty or thirty minutes - until I stop, stretch, and put in an additional hour on the elliptical machine, which has a far lesser impact on my ability to breathe. I have to admit that in recent months, difficult and stress-filled months for the meat suit, I did not always find the time to go running, so it was no surprise that my 5k was becoming more and more difficult. But when the drowning sensation began to kick in after five minutes of running and I simply could not continue for more than a mile without stopping, I thought that perhaps this might be something worth mentioning to my doctor.
The Medical Authorities have declared that I have exercise-induced asthma. The Medical Authorities would like to know why I never mentioned this before. The Medical Authorities think I am an idiot, but they have prescribed an inhaler for me, which makes running bearable once more. My typical cardio workout -- run 5k, stretch, put in 10k on the elliptical machine -- is a lot more exhausting than it used to be, but at least I can do it without dying.
The meat suit is bigger than I'm used to it being. It's a little soft in places that I'd secretly hoped I would never be soft again. It is lumpy in clothes, which I suspect is because those clothes are a little too tight. There is part of me that holds on to my magical inhaler talisman and imagines that my pudgy bits will now melt away. There is part of me that thinks that if I just work out for a few more hours a week, or if I stop eating burritos, that I will be back to my normal, natural, svelte self in a matter of weeks. It is critically important that I take this part of me out behind the woodshed and hack it to death with an axe.
This way lies madness. This way lies dieting. This way lies exercise bulimia and years of expensive therapy. The meat suit will do whatever it wants to do. For now, just be thankful you can breathe.
The Medical Authorities have declared that I have exercise-induced asthma. The Medical Authorities would like to know why I never mentioned this before. The Medical Authorities think I am an idiot, but they have prescribed an inhaler for me, which makes running bearable once more. My typical cardio workout -- run 5k, stretch, put in 10k on the elliptical machine -- is a lot more exhausting than it used to be, but at least I can do it without dying.
The meat suit is bigger than I'm used to it being. It's a little soft in places that I'd secretly hoped I would never be soft again. It is lumpy in clothes, which I suspect is because those clothes are a little too tight. There is part of me that holds on to my magical inhaler talisman and imagines that my pudgy bits will now melt away. There is part of me that thinks that if I just work out for a few more hours a week, or if I stop eating burritos, that I will be back to my normal, natural, svelte self in a matter of weeks. It is critically important that I take this part of me out behind the woodshed and hack it to death with an axe.
This way lies madness. This way lies dieting. This way lies exercise bulimia and years of expensive therapy. The meat suit will do whatever it wants to do. For now, just be thankful you can breathe.