Success is a relative thing

For those of you who have been reading my blog (have I hit 10 readers yet???), you may recall my original posting which proclaimed my intentions to go from couch to 5K runner in 9 weeks.

I'm one week shy of the 9 week mark, and at this point in the "game" (as if running could EVER be considered a game), I should be running a cool 2.75 miles in just under 30 minutes -- all while sporting a florescent pink sports bra, matching track pants, and sparkly white tennis shoes. (That's how I picture the accomplished runner.)

Alas, I find myself coming up a bit short.

I was keeping up until about week 5, when suddenly my years of inactivity caught up with me. My knees were killing me, my legs burned like they were on fire, and I think I bordered on hyperventilating on more than one occasion.

I blamed it on my crappy $50 treadmill. I blamed it on running in a stinky garage filled with lawn mower fumes. I blamed it on the summer heat. Then when I ran ... er .. shuffled, out of excuses, I realized I had nothing left to blame but myself.

In an embarrassing display of being a girl, I walked inside from my jog, sobbing at my inadequacies.

Robert, in an embarrassing display of being a guy, asked me, "what's your problem?"

I explained I was a failure, and he asked how I had possibly come to that conclusion. I retorted I couldn't keep up with the 5K plan. He asked me, "who cares?"

I reminded him I'd told everyone in the world about my plan, and it was embarrassing to go back on that.

Then in one of those shining husband moments, Robert hugged me, sweat and all, and explained that he was proud of me for working my butt off -- regardless of what "that stupid plan" says.

That was a few weeks ago. With Robert's encouragement and a 12-step program, I threw the 5K plan out the window. Instead, I'm jogging/walking for 30 minutes, 3 times a week, trying to outdo myself in distance each time.

I won't reveal my latest record, because by the world's standards, it's ridiculously slow.

Then again, I'm still jogging after 8 weeks. And tonight, when Emma didn't go to bed until after 9:30, and all I wanted to do was crash, I dragged my butt out to the garage and outdid my personal best.

For that, I'm pretty darn proud of myself.