Much like Kmart Brenda with her fucking faux marble contact in every surface in the house, just because you *can* do something, does not mean you should.
I know this now. I learned my lesson the hard way, after eagerly agreeing at the start of the year to do a 10km running event with some friends that took place last month. The day came, and I had not trained one single bloody day. I spent the entire run with the same Westlife song (Flying Without Wings) on a loop in my brain, the entire fucking time. It was my own personal hell and I was stuck there. I couldn’t even run fast, and I got lapped by walkers that clearly idolise Kath and Kel.
Look. I’m a busy uni student and on the weekends there are simply too many incredible DJs playing to be spending my weekends out there busting a lung up a hill or whatever. I already knew I could run 5km, and figured that if someone put a gun to my head, I could manage 10km. So, I spent all year fanging around doing absolutely nothing in the way of physical exercise, and half-heartedly “carb loaded” the day before the run. And by “carb loaded”, I mean that I ate some ramen noodles at uni for lunch and then ordered pizza for dinner. #wellness personified, suck on that Isagenix.
But how foolish I was! How my poor muscles ached afterwards. Thankfully, my loyal, masochistic body held out long enough to complete the full 10km, albeit I did walk for awhile somewhere around the 7-8km mark. But after the run? My calves had seized up, my hip flexors made me realize why the elderly get hooked on Tramadol, and for some reason I developed emphysema sometime in the 3 hours after the run, because I could not take a deep breath without exploding into a hacking cough like a smoker in a housefire.
Don’t run. Running is for skinny anaemic 44 year old women who secretly hate themselves and are frustrated at the amount of shit they cannot control in their lives. You want a workout? Get on up in the club and dance from 11pm until 4am every Friday and Saturday night. It’s way funner, and EDM is better than Westlife by a country mile.
Love, Akika xoxoxoxooxoxox