I ran this morning. I’ve run nearly every morning for the last two months in preparation for a half marathon in October. I hadn’t run for two years due to injuries and the fear of injuries. I’d never run in my life prior to the age of 33.
Over the course of time, I have had a few cat calls while running. Most notably I was called a “lard ass” while training for a 10K a few years ago. This morning I was called a “fatso.” The man felt it necessary to honk his horn, lean out the window of his stellar Geo Tracker as he passed me at 60 mph and scream it. To this man, this paragon of all that women want and lust after, I say “thank you.”
That’s right – Thank You.
Thank you for reminding me of how strong I am.
I am 200 lbs. and I regularly run between 4.5 and 6.5 miles. I can run 8 miles without wanting to die. I am constantly amazed by the strength this battered body has – because this body has not been treated well. In fact, I have hated my body most of my life. This body has been starved, stuffed and purged. It has suffered and it has seen its way through to better days.
I am not a swimsuit model, but I am of a model of perseverance and of strength. I have been abused, I have been assaulted by words and by fists and I am so much stronger because of it.
And that strength amazes me with every day and with every mile I run.
I am so much healthier than I was at 25, 17 or 12. I have weathered past storms, I will weather future storms. I am amazing.
So, Mr. Fatso you can kiss my round, muscled, dimpled ass because I think it’s pretty damn amazing.
Photo via Flickr by missjensphotos