There’s something delightfulabout going home for the holidays: My mom makes up for months of not pampering her “baby” by doing my laundry, buying me clothes, and, most importantly, cooking food that doesn’t resemble anything from Pho La Jolla.
After the holiday, as I sat eating Ben and Jerry’s and watching “The Biggest Loser” — putting off finals studying for as long as possible — my jaw dropped when I saw one of the contestants, weighing in at whopping 207 pounds, run a mile in seven minutes and 31 seconds, besting my high school record by a cool minute.
I was watching people twice my size running a marathon. And trust me, there’s nothing more motivating than watching slow-motion recaps of fat folds flapping in the L.A. breeze. I realized that if I wanted to survive the holidays without having to submit an application video to N.B.C. come January, I’d have to take action.
After a little couch-side Googling, I came across the La Jolla half marathon.
This was it. All or nothing. I said goodbye to $60 and pledged to finish the half-marathon come April.
After a nine-hour drive, a $431 speeding ticket and buying those Reeboks that are supposed to make
your butt better, I was ready to hit the gym.
It wasn’t my first walk in the park, but gym rats are still intimidating. The last thing I wanted to do was attempt a work out side-by-side with a meathead giving me a front-row seat to the gun
show. Making a beeline for the treadmill, I figured a half mile warm-up couldn’t be a bad place to start.
Five minutes in, the supposed “comfortable jog” made me feel like a doughy, pathetic, out-of-shape fatty. Although those 13.1 miles were looking less and less like probable, the stingy Asian in me wouldn’t allow
myself to simply throw away $60, so I kept going.
Thirty seconds later, gasping for breath, arms flailing, I hit “stop.”
That was enough for one day.
I knew I had to make a plan if I was actually going to do this. I called my superstar marathon runner and asked for help. His advice: Hit the gym every other day, run two sets, with a cool-down in between, and tack on an additional .25 mile to my work out every day. Easy enough, right?
As obvious as it sounds, I found that it’s a lot easier to watch “Biggest Loser” contestants suffer from verbal
harassment and gravity’s cruel reality from the couch than it is to follow suit.
Over the next few weeks, as I huffed and puffed on the treadmill, I stayed motivated by telling myself, “If they can do it, YOU can. Man up.”
It’s been three weeks since the first day at the gym, and though there were some days that even a visit from all the 6’4” blonds in the world wouldn’t have gotten me off my ass, I’ve been able to stick to my workout regime.
Miraculously enough, through all the blood, sweat and mashed potatoes, I’m making it past the third mile — even though I’d still rather be watching the fatties do it for me.
