Less of Josephine.

Today I weighed in and was down 2 pounds, putting me 5 pounds down in two weeks. That’s pretty darn good, really, particularly since I’ve practically been hoovering up sodium by the truck load (yes, I am a salt freak). But I’ve certainly done better. I’ve done better SEVERAL times. In fact, I can say quite honestly that I’m rather an expert at losing weight. Over the past 4 years I have lost the same 50 pounds four times. FOUR TIMES. I’ve lost it with low carb. I’ve lost it with low fat. I’ve lost it with calorie-counting. And now I’m losing it as a vegetarian calorie-counter. It really doesn’t matter what plan I choose — ALL “plans” work in the short-term.

But something always happens once I’m running around in my cute size 6 jeans with my smaller, much perkier boobies. I forget. I forget that no matter how darn cute I look in those adorably small Calvin Kleins, I AM AN OVEREATER. I simply am NOT a “naturally thin” person. Left to my own unconscious choices, I will eat massive quantities of food that are completely void of any nutritional value. And before I know it, I can’t fit into my Calvins any more. And worse, almost overnight I can’t even squeeze them onto one damn LEG. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but you get the picture. And it doesn’t actually happen overnight, but it usually seems that way to my high-fat, high-sugar, high-fast-food addled brain.

And then what happens? Well…I hunker down in the mother of all sulks. I keep eating way too much junk out of pure stubbornness; I buy bigger clothes; I stop running, biking and swimming because none of my workout gear will fit; and I hide myself away from the light of day and wonder what the hell happened while I ignore the obvious fact that I AM AN OVEREATER.

So this time, while I’m watching the pounds drop, I need to plan for the moment when I shimmy into those cute jeans. I need to be prepared so I’m not bamboozled by my subconscious into believing that I really should eat 4 croissants with honey for breakfast, because after all I’m skinny and deserve it. I need to stay strong and remember that I am not a naturally thin person. I need to maintain a healthy relationship with food and exercise… and apparently I need to get a tattoo right across my forehead that reads: I AM AN OVEREATER.

I had plenty of time during this morning’s 5 miler to think about my current training plan — which is building up to a marathon in the fall. 26.2 miles seems like such an impossibly long distance, particularly when you are contemplating it while slowly running in 85% humidity with no breeze. My longest race to-date has been a half-marathon (13.1, obviously) and I tell you, it took some significant effort to finish it. And when it was finished I was never so happy to SIT DOWN and stop moving my legs. The idea of trotting another 13.1 miles at that point seems ridiculously far-fetched, and yet, people do. And supposedly, if I follow my training plan faithfully and think many, many positive thoughts, I can be one of those people.

At mile 4 of today’s run I thought to myself, “wow, a marathon is more than 6 times as long as what I’ve just completed.” At mile 5, I was too sweaty and pooped to do the math, so I just thought, “Wow” again and was glad that I was still early in my training schedule.

But even as I ended today’s run, I started working on the positive thoughts part of my training program. I visualized myself crossing the marathon finish line with a giant toothy smile and hands stretched overhead in the classic victory pose. I imagined the way I’ll feel when the finishers medal is placed around my neck. And it took no effort at all to imagine how good it will be to SIT DOWN!

Not quite walking, not quite running — wunning. I’m a master. Yes it looks awkward, yes I feel silly, and yes I covet the grace and speed of other actual runners who pass me effortlessly on their way to 28 minute 5Ks.But wunning is a key step to hauling my own currently unimpressive cookies to an under-30 minute 5K. Without wunning, I wouldn’t be out there on the road burning calories, I wouldn’t be improving my cardiovascular performance, I wouldn’t be testing my mental endurance against high humidity and offleash dogs, and I wouldn’t be chafing the hell out of myself with industrial-looking running bras. Okay, so that last one isn’t so great. But the other three accomplishments more than make up for my ugly support gear.

So I’ll wun, and every day, little by little, the wuninng will begin to resemble something more identifiable as an actual track exercise. And every day, little by little, I will begin to resemble something more identifiable as a runner.

My 3 mile wun this morning counts for something even if it didn’t come in anywhere close to 28 minutes. It counts for fitness improvement, physical stamina, emotional wellbeing, and a future in those cute little running outfits in bright, happy colors.

Well, I’ve been at this for two weeks now. Two weeks of eating healthy and exercise. Two weeks of impatience, heavy breathing, sweating in cotton (because the dry-fit gear I have is too small), chafing, and longing stares at clothes I won’t even begin to fit into for another 10 to 12 weeks.

Two binge-free weeks feels like a lifetime. But I’m through them, bruised and bloodied yes, but through them — and looking forward to week 3 in a vague, disbelieving, masochistic sort of way.

Yes, some day I’ll be wearing actual running clothes when I run — because they’ll fit. Some day I’ll run more comfortably because I’ll be carrying 60 pounds less on my not-big-boned-like-I-always-wanted-to-believe frame.

Some day soon.