The runner's nod and cargo shorts

Occasionally I run. I hate to run. Maybe it's not "hate" exactly, maybe it's more like "I really don't like it." I'm trying to like it more. It's not really working, but I am trying.

One of my many running problems is that I didn't have that iPod arm thingy that holds your music while you run. So...I've had to wear shorts with pockets when I run. This means wearing denim shorts because, as of last week, I've only had 2 pairs of shorts with pockets and they were both denim. And I don't really like one of the pairs, which meant I've basically had 1 pair of shorts with pockets and several days of 80+ degree weather in a row. Do you know how much of a fool you are to run in denim shorts? Suffice it to say, I only do it in the dark, and it's not dark here until 11pm or so...

I went to Target last week to buy 2 new pairs of shorts: 1 pair of denim shorts to replace the inferior pair I've had and a khaki pair of shorts. I found the denim pair without too much problem, but I was having a problem finding the khaki pair. I did find a few pairs, but they were REALLY short or not my size. I was bummed and went to the men's department and found this really cute pair of khaki cargo shorts. They are so AH-mazing! They are this incredibly soft--but sturdy--fabric. There are oodles of pockets, like if I have 8 cell phones, 2 cameras & 2 wallets, this pair of shorts will fit it all. They fit well too. I am in LOVE! Why has no one ever told me that men's khaki cargo shorts are the most AH-mazing piece of clothing ever???? AH-mazing.

Another thing I splurged on was that armband thingy.

Now I can run in my running shorts, and I look all official with my armband. Today I even got up super early, donned my running shorts and armband, and went outside to run. I looked like one of those runners I give the stink eye to on my way to work for their holier-than-thou commitment to running, except I'm the much fatter version. So I'm huffing and puffing doing my 2 miles (and cursing the whole time because I have PTSD memories of my 9th grade gym teacher calling me by my last name and telling me to "hustle"), and I see a REAL runner coming toward me with her springy ponytail, coordinated running clothes (in size 0, of course) and perma-tan --note that I was running in the Stepford Wives neighborhood because it's flat & homey doesn't do running uphill yet-- and she gave me that runner's nod.

Like I was one of them.

And suddenly I could hear the birds chirping through Tupac blasting in my ears, my PE teacher's "hustle" faded, and I ran. Not like Forrest Gump, but I huffed and puffed with a little less disdain and a little bit more perseverance.

I ran...kind of like the Flock of Seagulls but with less oomph in my bangs.