Lecturing for ninety minutes in three-inch/ four-inch heels in a sweltering classroom without ever sitting down knocked off some fifteen pounds beginning June of last year. I’ve been losing weight for the last four, three years.
I guess it’s because my lifestyle is only limited lazy-ass and pig-out weekends. Five days out of seven (actually, six if you count my three hours-long Spanish class on Saturday which just wipes me out), I’m moving. Really moving. Commuting, inconvenient as it may be especially now that it’s summer, has benefits: you do a lot of walking and sometimes, sprinting. That results into a healthier and more bad-ass you.
However, I lost the fifteen pounds due to the stress of my new academic life. That isn’t good. I used to play badminton and worked out at a gym before but when (my old) work started taking too much of my time, I had to stop.
When I think of losing weight, I don’t like to think about it. Loony, I know. The moment you stop thinking about something, that’s when it happens.
For example, I see this fantabulous dress. I make the mistake of trying it on. The color is great against my skin. I look like a goddess in it. It’s the last in my size. However, the price requires me to fork over the plastic. Which isn’t happening because I only use it for emergencies and for buying home appliances. What happens? Despondency of the greatest magnitude.
I let go. It’s not meant to be, I think. At least I got to try it on. It will look fantabulous on someone else (just a sec, do people still say fantabulous?). Life goes on. I focus on the things I have and consider myself lucky. I’m thankful. I’m happy.
A week later, the dress goes on sale. I get it and wear it.
I stopped thinking about having to lose weight. I swear, I thought the washing machine was making my clothes loose. It wasn’t until a friend saw me and went, “Whoa! What happened to you? You’re thin!” I waved it away. My mother confirmed it when she said, “Why are you wearing your sister’s clothes?”
“These are my pants, Ma,” I retorted.
“Better shop for a new wardrobe,” I was told.
I would like to lose more weight. That’s why I started running again towards the end of January. I started by doing it three times a week, then four times a week. If running is something you’d like to do to lose weight/be healthier, remember that you have to build up your endurance. I started by running for three kilometer for a few weeks, with lots of brisk walking in between.
Now I can do five kilometers running straight! I’m very proud of that 
I haven’t been really good this week, however. Finals and finishing grades kept me chained to the desk until the wee hours of the morning. Then my m.a. requirements and yeah, migraine attacks. Three times.
I compensated by jogging for half an hour in the neighborhood. It isn’t the same, though. I like to run in tank tops but this is the Philippines. Unlike in school where nobody gives you a second glance if you run in a tank top, I got a couple of whistles. Gross.
Yesterday, I picked up Haruki Murakami’s memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.
Murakami is one of my favorite writers. I’ve read mostly his short stories and zero novels (bad, I know, I would as soon as I finish my novel backlog that goes all the way to 2004). I love this guy. I’ve often found his stories funny. I’ve been meaning to read his memoir eversince it came out in 2006 and, honestly, forgot about it until a serendipitous stop in a booksale by Zeitgeist in Ateneo’s Dela Costa Hall.
Haruki Murakami has run in marathons. Yes. MARATHONS. The New York City Marathon, among them. I was worried for a teeny-weeny bit that this might be a pontifical memoir. Of course, it isn’t. Murakami is probably one of the most self-aware writers, meaning he believes that most people wouldn’t like his personality. What I like best: he doesn’t justify, he doesn’t apologize. It is what it is.
I’ve only read the first chapter and my respect and admiration for him grows with every word. Yeah, no exaggeration. It doesn’t grow page by page but word by word. It’s just a relief to read someone who doesn’t deliver the usual bull of running or doing anything in order to win or compete. Or how wonderful or exhilating it is and because being a runner leads to a healthier self, you get sick at the thought of steak. While it’s true that what Murakami writes isn’t an entirely new banana, the approach is refreshing and more than a couple of times, got an, “Oh yeah!” exclamation from me.
I intend to participate in a marathon this July. My running buddy Deeji wants us to reach the 10-kilometer mark soon (how, oh how? waaaah). I don’t aim to win, only to finish.
But if there’s a hottie who could drive me to run faster, I just might make it to the finish line first.
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