Team Slactators

In an overzealous effort to get my post-baby body back, two months ago I made the biggest mistake of my life.  I signed myself up for the St. Louis St. Patrick's Day 5 mile run.  Wait.  Not only did I sign myself up for a 5 mile run, but I asked several of my Mom friends if they would like to run with me because I know myself well enough to know that I would totally cop out if there's no one to hold me accountable.  If you're running too you can look for us - we're team Slactators... we slack on the track because we're busy giving snacks with our racks. 

Or you can just look for the big boobed lady with the mom body vomiting around mile 1. 
I don't know what I was thinking when I made this terrible mistake.  I just knew that fat people don't run 5 miles so this would make me skinny.  Maybe that just by signing up magic exercise fairies would visit me in the night and suck all my fat out while I slept.  I certainly did not take the horrible awful pain of actually training for the run into consideration. 

And I use the word training loosely.  My "training" usually involves running for about 15 minutes on the treadmill then taking my US Weekly into the gym bathroom for about 45 minutes so I can get some peace and quiet for once in my day. 

I've never run 5 miles.  I've never run 4 miles.  Once when I was 15 I ran 3 miles, and then again when I made another huge mistake and signed myself up for a 5K run.  I don't have a body built for running.  Never in my life have I been athletic, though time and time again I tried to fight it by joining lots of sports teams.  Still to this day the sound of someone blowing a whistle makes me sick to my stomach and covered with the feeling of impending public humiliation.   

I feel like a prisoner on death row, knowing d-day is nearing.  But this is worse.  At least if I were a prisoner I would end my stay of execution with a nice hot meal which I could eat in glorious silence.

This is happening, and it's going to be bad.  I'm praying for an asteroid.