I am the walrus...

What an amazing Sunday it has turned out to be. Instead of parking myself on the kitchen island as I write I am sitting in my Adirondack chair on the back deck enjoying the sun. This is a sure sign that spring is sneaking itself around the corner, that and I saw the spring lambs out  playing in the pastures this morning. This place, this moment is just where I want to be.

Last month in Triathlete Magazine there was an article titled "Aloha, Muffin Top." It was written by a woman who, by the sound of it from the article, is a pretty accomplished aged grouper. The article was about how, as a triathlete, you are constantly bombarded with and surrounded by people with AMAZING bodies. Not the emaciated bodies shown in Vogue or Cosmo that the mainstream press deem amazing, starving yourself really doesn't take all that much work, no these bodies come from hours upon hours of hard work .

These bodies have veins that show (which I personally find absolutely hot). These bodies have abs that aren't six packs, they're half racks.  The problem is, and was the main point in the article, that these bodies are genetically impossible for most of us plebeians to attain. Just as it is an unhealthy obsession for 17 year-old girls to want to be Kate Moss it is unhealthy for someone like myself to obsess over wanting to be Chrissie Wellington. It just isn't feasible, it's possible for sure, but not realistic. This doesn't mean I don't spend useless hours obsessing over it though.

I am by no means overweight. I wear a size 8 which is six sizes smaller than the "average" American woman who, according to the CDC's measurements, is a size 14.  This isn't to say couldn't stand to loose a few pounds for the sake of making running easier and hopefully faster. I average about 145 pounds but would like to drop 5-10 to see how it affects my running. I watch what I eat and try to make sure I'm getting no more than 1,800 calories a day. I follow the workouts my coach plans for me. I drink a lot of water and outside of skinny lattes I don't normally drink my calories (I gave up drinking a bottle of Merlot a night years ago). And yet each morning when I step on the scale hoping to see a smaller number than the day before I am disappointed. 145. Much like my frustration with my 10 minute mile it seems my body just likes 145. Regardless.

There will come a time when I am at peace with that. When the digital readout of 145 won't cause me to sigh heavily and screw up my face in the mirror as I admire the way my lips, nose, cheeks and eyes can smoosh themselves together in such an unattractive way. Much like the author of the article I will one day wake up and embrace the hips, and thighs, and curves, and butt.

Until then...

Goo goo g' joob.