It's been over a month and I think I had enough time off since I wrote a blog and recovered from a month long of races. For flashback Friday, what's better to write about than the Massachusetts' North Face Endurance Challenge experience with Mirna Valerio, infamously known as Fatgirlrunning, especially since I just wrote a review about her book coming out in October. Oh, so you haven't read my review: Book Review: A Beautiful Work in Progress...shame on you. You go read that RIGHT NOW!
Pre Race Day
"Fuck the gym. I have to get out of here on time."
Despite my efforts of packing early and attempting to get everything done in advance, I'm a stereotypical woman. There's never enough bags or clothing to take for a trip, even if it's only for the weekend. I promised myself a few weeks ago that I would have all of my items ready. Shit, I even made a timeline for my foolishness and fuckery. Seems like the only thing that went according to plan is actually making it out of NYC.
Two months prior, my running idol (and I think it's safe to say FRIEND) Mirna Valerio wrote the following on my Facebook page:
In turn, I binged between television and reading Jessamyn Stanley's Every Body Yoga: Let Go of Fear, Get On the Mat, Love Your Body, while being in my feelings about God knows what at this point. I chalk it up to being a rainbow coalition of emotions because I'm a Gemini. I looked over at my suitcase when I made it to bed around 12:30 and was so sure that I was going to get up in 4 hours. I'm thankful that I didn't because I truly didn't know what Saturday's slaughter house presentation had awaiting for me.
Friday morning, I headed over to my best friend to go to his doctor's appointment. After hearing some unfortunate news, I called Mirna from the Bronx and gave her my information. Thankfully, she was running late and it gave me a bit of time to get White Castle cheeseburgers and onion rings for breakfast. This is probably the time where you should side eye me, considering I downed around 6 burgers and I'm horrifically lactose intolerant. She picked me up some time closer to 1pm and after we all exchanged some jokes, Mirna and I headed on the traffic laced road to Massachusetts.
Despite the shit traffic conditions, a stop or two to allow my ass to play the sax and a coffee break, we made it to the Waschusett Mountain. It's such a beautiful site from afar and for some reason, I didn't respect how menacing this course would be. The Waschusett Mountain is Massachusetts highest state mountain with a top elevation over 2,000 feet. Perhaps it was a great idea that I didn't research as I typically do for all of my races. I was still recovering from the shit storm name Mountain Creek in Vernon, NJ from the Spartan Ultra Beast.
Mirna and I picked up our packets 30 minutes to closing but hung around for the seminar about Saturday's course. We had the pleasure of meeting Dean Karnazes, who happens to be this bad ass ultra-marathon runner here in the US and author of Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner. For a man who is a month away from pushing 55, I would be, could be and to the prude folks, should be lying if I didn't think that this man was my undocumented future ex-husband next to Gordon Ramsey obnoxiously incredible ass. Okay, enough of my drooling over strong men. He spoke eloquently about the adventures of being an ultra marathoner. While Mirna affectionally remembers his words about biting off more than he can chew on her Women's Running Magazine post, I remember him talking about the metaphorically "Coming to Jesus" moment. Perhaps, with better judgment, I should have known that this course would be a diva during income tax time with the two grand lace-front but I was too hype about doing my first trail marathon. After we snatched up a few selfies with him, I think we both went into our respective modes of race day nerves.
NOTE TO SELF: If anyone ever reference something in correlation to the Lord Jesus Christ and his sidekicks, take them seriously.
Defining all of the literary squabble of carb-loading to contradicting articles suggesting fat and protein, we opted for burgers and fries at Five Guys. To add insult to injury, I went for the milkshake because those damn things are life. Unfortunately, my anus reminded me of how much milkshakes don't bring all the boys to my yard about a hour later.
We unpacked, took a shower and did something that I no longer feel so alone about: Laid out our clothes and snapped a picture of our race day outfits to post onto social media. After talking some more, we finally decided to get some necessary shut eye.
Before you start cursing me out, I can explain. I've been pretty busy in my personal life and marathon/ultra-marathon training is no joke. Nevertheless, I have a great way to kick start my blog posts again. Wait for it...
I'm doing an advanced book review. Guys, I lucked up and received an advanced copy of A Beautiful Work in Progress from the incredible FatGirlRunning chic herself, Mirna Valerio.
Disclaimer: Book reviews are a lot harder than I gave it credit but I certainly enjoyed doing it. Nevertheless, check this shit out:
There's a serious back story to this message but you can read it on my next blog post because baby, that's another story of its own.
Anyway, back to the main topic!
Book Review Time
Title: A Beautiful Work in Progress
Author: Mirna Valerio
Publisher: Brilliance Publishing, Grand Harbor Press, 2017
ISBN (Book): 9781503943391
ISBN (Audiobook, CD, Unabridged): 9781536685893
ISBN (Audiobook, MP3, Unabridged): 9781436685909
Subjects and Categories You May Find this Book:
Biography & Autobiography/Personal Memoirs
Biography & Autobiography/Sports Health & Fitness/Women’s Health
Biography & Autobiography/Sports
May 28, 2017
Dear Anonymous Tumblr Admirer:
Like you, I prefer my racism clean, preferably washed in Clorox bleach, pressed to a crisp, served without a toasty blanket. Cold, poignant and to the point. I would resort to suggesting you to play around in your parents' worn down sheets with the perfectly cut out holes but technology brought us here today.
Sir or ma'am, since starting this blog, I received 133 pieces of hate mail to date and this one warms the depths of my asshole just like countless others. Unfortunately, you're not the lucky one who will have the opportunity to hurt my feelings today. I think you should take notes from some of the prior offenders. In turn, I wanted to help you attack my ego just a bit.
The most successful offenders to date used statistics, dug up alternative facts and sprinkled convoluted research in attempts of making me feel inadequate. You see, if you resorted to using a simple Google search for the word nigger, you could see the statistics of the incline of the usage of such term. Frankly, if you have done any decent research about me, you had a better chance of making me cringe by my favorite terms like porch monkey, spook and my all time favorites: Eggplant and Darkie. The word nigger is played the fuck out like cheesy oversized gold chains and mom jeans but you're trying to bring it back, right?
Anonymous, you are a basic bitch who had nothing better to do on your lunch hour, assuming you have a job, but to write me a heavy hitter one liner while eating a pathetic bologna and cheese sandwich with the stray hairs still intact. Calling me a nigger is one thing but UGLY... the nerve of you. Fine, I will let you have it because beauty thrives off of the eye of the beholder. But please, let me educate you on a small fraction of a host of people who have been called an ugly nigger:
When you took the time to write me this lackluster statement, you unknowingly added me to the list of some of the greatest who walked this earth. So as the millennial African American children who adore such coon terms as you, "Nigga, I made it!" Thank you for reminding me that breathing pisses folks like you off in the morning as you struggle to make yourself climax but your hands went on strike. Thank you for KEEPING me relevant. Thank you for thinking about me in your dreams, fucking up your REM sleep and even while you take a shit because baby, obviously I was that important. What kind of ugly nigger would I be if I didn't respond to my fans. Whilst some of my ancestors chose to turn the other cheek, I will proverbially knock you the fuck out. Unfortunately, there's not much that we can do behind computer screens and if you're fortunate, a fully functioning phone that doesn't require for you to steal someone else's Wi-Fi.
In short, the next time that you try to come for me, hoping to fuck up my emotions, know that before you, there were many who walked your path and failed. I deep throated insults like you since 1985 and like the cheap one night stand that you are, I will leave the pennies at the nightstand for whores like you. Make sure you clean yourself up on the way out. I'll replace your basic, irrelevant ass with another troll in a few days. Maybe they'll be kind enough to leave their name.
An ugly nigger name Latoya
P.S. I'm glad that you didn't call me a FAT ugly nigger because that one is getting old too. Perhaps you did do your research. Hit the theme music on your way out.
My body is conditioned to waking up at a certain hour regardless of what time I went to sleep at this point. Today officially marks four years of this fitness journey. On May 27, 2013, I didn't know what my intentions would be or what was my purpose in life. Here I stand, May 27, 2017, I still don't know my intentions of where I am going but I am much confident about my path. I woke up this morning with the intentions of going to the gym. Strangely enough, I picked out the same shorts that I wore a year ago today. I promise it wasn't intentional. All day, I had a host of things that prevented me from going to the gym. Some were distractions; others were priorities. When I finally had the opportunity, I went against one of my mentor's advice and read the comments from the Women's Running article on Facebook. Typically, articles that I'm featured in as of recent are laced with sprinkles of arsenic fat jokes but this was the first time I loved every comment on there. Sure, people didn't write these comments just to make me feel good. Hell, who knows if anyone even knew who the hell I was prior to the article but there was two comments that jumped out at me. In turn, I opted to keep my ass home and enjoy a rest day for a change.
Is the Conversation Deeper than Inclusion of Plus-Size Athletes?
In response to the inclusion of plus-size athletes in fitness being respected:
Same can go for thinner women. If I hear "eat a cheeseburger" in reference one more time, I'll scream. Leave people and their size alone. - Jacquie G.
I am sorry. Before this journey, I used to be one of those people who would heckle thinner women with terrible jokes, particularly comments at verbatim like "eat a cheeseburger." If it's anything that this journey has taught me is that size matters and it doesn't matter at all.
I've said it before on a previous blog post and I'll say it again: I'm exceptionally thankful for the conversation that body positivity and the visual presence of "plus-size athletes" in the media but it doesn't mean that it should exclude others from this dynamic.
When I lost the weight in 2014, I was reminded of how much ridicule that you get for being the "skinny bitch" on the track. I heard everything from "you looked better with weight" to all sorts of speculations about me being on drugs and look "sickly." People suggested that I should stop running because obviously I needed permission to "pick up the hot dogs again." These comments pierce the soul something deep at any size and while I don't engage in such shitty commentary these days, I must admit that I did in the past. For this, I apologize for shaming women like yourself just for being you. I think there's so many people out there who aren't happy with themselves on the inside that finding a community to belong to makes them feel safe for five minutes, even if it's at the expense of others.
"Plus-Sized", "Fat" & P/C Bullshit
Let's stop calling them 'plus-sized' for a start. - Pip D.
Baby, where was you in 2015 when all of the weight came back on? There's so much truth packed into such a short statement and then there's areas where I actually don't mind the politically correct bullshit.
You're right: Let's stop calling athletes like myself "plus-sized" and just call us what the hell we are: ATHLETES. You, my dear, get it. When people get over the shock and will either grow bored of seeing titles like "plus-sized" or "body positivity" plastered everywhere, this conversation might become a thing of the past. Hell, if this world is much more forgiving, fat athletes (and pardon my comfort with the term fat) like myself will be on level ground with the stereotypical views of "fit." In the meantime, unfortunately, 'plus-sized' is a coined term to not piss off the crowd who aren't as liberated or comfortable with the fat term being thrown around.
For several months now, I have talked either in private or on public forums with folks asking the same question: "How does it feel to be a plus-size/fat/larger/full figured...athlete?" What does it feel like to be a petite athlete or a regular ass athlete? Perhaps the question should be rephrased to "How do YOU feel about being an athlete?" If asked this question, I'd probably say that I feel a mixture between overwhelmed, excited and blessed.
At any size, athletes succumb to the pressures of keeping our diets intact, struggling to find a balance between our work, personal and fitness lives and being human. With the rise of social media and our eyes, hearts and groins indulging in all things artificial, it's easy to forget that we have worries, fears and insecurities too. Fuck, some days, I look in the mirror and see a whale and days like this morning, I am astonished by my solid arms, Amazon legs and level of confidence. To hell with labels: People need to work on their self-esteems. When more of us do this, signature terms like 'plus-size' will be obsolete. In the meantime, I think there's a passive need for these terms. Some people need to feel uncomfortable that a descriptive word has to be placed before a title or achievement for progress to be made. In the meantime, we all need to embrace the suck so others can stop pretending that the pink elephant has been in the room the whole damn time, eating popcorn and watching Married with Children.
Past, Present & Future
Dear Latoya (Shauntay if you're nasty),
You changed. And that's beautiful. I am thankful for your brilliance and levels of not giving a fuck about what anyone has to say about you. In 2012, you hit rock bottom like nobody's business and in 2013, you found yourself with an intimate set of friends and family after purging people who's lease was up years ago. Through fitness, attempts and failures, you are flourishing like a flower and not just any flower: A Perennial.
One day, I will wake up and I will no longer be a fat athlete. No prefix or safe descriptive term in front of my abilities. I will be able to retire #fatrunner and #plussizeathlete into an incinerator, although I'll be nostalgic of these trending topics. In the meantime, there's more work to be done, discussions that haven't even brewed yet and more people to piss off from their levels of comfort. There's more "plus-sized" athletes out there who don't even know that they're going to be hitting the pavement, swimming in deep waters or riding alongside me on the road as I yell at angry drivers because I'm a stereotypical New Yorker. In the meantime, let's work on more than just our bodies but molding our minds to respect ourselves and each other.
My day started out pretty decent this morning. I trained my 6:30 client for a hour, whisked my kid off to school and made a bathroom run before heading to my local gym.
At this point, many people are used to my bobble head jogging around with headphones for five to ten miles when I'm in the middle of marathon training or watching me lift shit up and putting things down when I'm going in for a personal death session. In my mind, I don't think I did anything different than my usual: I took a selfie, jotted down my entry for the workout of the day and picked up the equipment required to proceed with my routine. My typical corner was occupied by my cool gym bro buddies who happen to be in the middle of their regular but grueling 45 minute calisthenics session. One day, I might ask to join them, just not today.
I headed over to the mat under all of the vibrant circular lights and started my warm-up. I pulled out my speed rope to get in my standard 500 revolutions and around the 200 point, I was approached by a gym bro. Please insert your OH BOY... and AWWW FUCK here. Thanks.
From his eye contact from the 60th revolution, I knew he was going to say something to me. I thought my typical headphone move would be enough but nope, not this guy. He called me out over my imaginary music and I tried hard not to give him eye contact.
- CHICAGO!!! (I was wearing my 2016 Chicago Marathon shirt)
- You really need to jump up higher and slow down your speed.
- No, actually I'm fine but thanks for the suggestion. I like my method.
- Well, if you like terrible form I guess... You really aren't jumping high enough and you should use your arms more. It'll build up your chest. Did you know-
- Seriously dude. I'm good. Can I enjoy the rest of my workout?
- You don't have to get all defensive. I'm just trying to help you reach your fitness goals.
- Oh really muthafucker?! Fitness goals? Please entertain me on my fitness goals, sir. Are you a personal trainer? Did you ask for my age or health profile? My ailments? You should really train that mouth and brain like you do to your arms. If you're going to give me advice, at least give me SOLID advice. Fuck off!
- Thank you. I've been trying to wear my bitch repellent all morning.
This conversation never gets old for me because it seems like I wear shirts to the gym that screams "I need help from people who will injure me." In turn, I will entertain you with 6 ways to tell the obnoxious gym bros to go away.
Sometimes, I forget that a bulk of my readers aren't runners. Strangely enough, a lot of you read my blog for the following reasons:
Whatever reason why you're here, you are HERE! And for this, I thank you.
Dozens of people asked me this question before but I received a lot of inboxes on my social networks regarding a term that I used several times while at the AirBnB Brooklyn Half Marathon course. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to take five minutes of your time to talk to you about "chub rub."
Yesterday, I received my 15th half marathon medal from completing the New York Road Runners' AirB&B Brooklyn Half Marathon. How do I feel? Amazing. Blessed. Ecstatic. How do I feel about the medal? Frankly, I really don't give a fuck.
Unofficially, November 28, 2013 was the very first "medal" that I received from a Turkey Trot 5K done in a local park in my neighborhood. My official first race was the NYRR's Joe Kleinerman 10K that took place on January 11, 2014. I didn't get a medal that day because it wasn't one of those races. Fuck the medal; I remember the overwhelming feelings that took over my body on that day. I was nervous, overdressed and with my Black Girls Run sisters. Despite it not being my first time running before, it was an impromptu race. I was training for the Michelob Half Marathon, which was two months away.
Pardon my terrible memory but I don't remember who talked me into signing up for a race so sporadically but this is my personality. My indulgence had me at a start line with overpriced leggings that itched & chafed my existence, a heavy ass sweater, a royal blue poncho and a Uniqlo cold gear shirt. In hindsight, I was begging to be severely dehydrated considering it was 54 degrees that day. I felt semi decent for the first couple of miles but mile 4 murdered me. Whoever came up with Cat Hill in Central Park should be dragged by the hair and punched severely...or at least this is what I thought in 2014. An influx of emotions overwhelmed me and I cried for an entire mile. I remember looking over at Ethel (my 5'7 warrior standing in the middle) who I met for the first time on the course and telling her that I was considering quitting. The loss of my dad hit me like a ton of bricks so bad on the course. The fog thickened, rain reduced and the mountains of clothing that I wore slowly were stripped. I was above throwing away clothing onto the course so I dragged everything. Ethel wouldn't let me quit and once I started talking with her, other Black Girls Run sisters wouldn't let me stay in my head for long. I reached a bit over five miles and not having a name for runner's high at the time, I felt this urge to run. The course went slightly down hill, then flattening out and before I knew it, I saw the 800 meter sign. My runner friend Ngozi shouted at me to keep moving. Because I'm a closet cry baby, I let my tears shower the finishing mat and then it was over. Who cares about not having a medal. I finished a race and I was surrounded by incredible strangers who I now call an extension of my family. 2014 was a great year.
Three days ago, my friend asked a group of us on Facebook how often do we look into the mirror and actually like what we see. Ironically, I was talking about this particular topic with one of my best friends before seeing this post.
Mirrors. Selfies. Reflections. They tend to tell me something different every time I stare into them. Before running added a boost of confidence to my self esteem, I remember going through layers of insecurities throughout my youth. Small framed, big bobble head and so many people reminded me of my slim yet awkward shape. I'm not sure of your racial background nor does it really matter but one of the many stereotypes that resonated in the African American community during the 1990s to early 2000s was set into various categories:
In my mind, I didn't meet those qualifications and I couldn't help but wonder if God was real. If he or she is real, why didn't they give me a decent rack? Double A nuggets for breast meat didn't make me happy and my booty surely wasn't a J-Lo sized ass but you get the point. Nevertheless, I had good days of looking at my reflection and I could stare at it with some sort of comfort for a few minutes without it feeling strange.
Every ounce of me wish I was writing this blog in a better state of mind. I've been struggling with responding to messages on my social media platforms since Saturday afternoon. Since I know that I tend to be a rambler, this blog post will be the shortened version of how shit went left at the New Jersey Spartan Ultra Beast. If you read my blogs long enough, this means that this blog will take you about 15 to 20 minutes to read. If needed, read this in sections with a shot of Jack Daniels. I type a lot and talk a lot more in person. I'll link the second part of my blog, which will be more of a survival guide, when I'm done getting over my emotions.
Like all people in recovery at typical recovery groups, the best thing I should do is introduce myself:
My name is Latoya Shauntay Snell and I DNF'ed the Tri-State New Jersey Spartan Ultra Beast on April 29, 2017. Fuck it. I said it.
It's Monday morning and the clouds match my mood: Solemn. I hate writing out the entire statement so we're going to call the Spartan Ultra Beast, UB from this point going forward. The UB was the most humbling race that I ever attempted in my almost 4 years of running and one year of obstacle course racing. Some of my critical readers might think that I failed for the following reasons:
I need a goddamn race but I'm also miserably sick at the moment. I haven't touched the gym in two days and if I don't make it in a few hours, I'll be on day 3. Several folks have peeked at my race calendar and have told me that either I'm incredibly inspiring or bat shit crazy. I don't mind the commentary and these races honestly keep me on my toes. Honestly, half marathons, marathons, obstacle course races and ultras make me the most nervous. Maybe you think it's the anticipation of completing 13, 26 or even 40 miles but it's really about my eating habits. Although I am a classically trained freelance chef, I worry about my eating habits.
People bomb their carb loading routine before race day in so many ways. For my novice runners, cyclists and triathletes, let me shed some personal light on some of the do's and don'ts of carb loading:
Its been long enough. I have neglected this blog a bit because of my personal emotional issues and commitments as a mother. Things are starting normalize in my chaotic life. I can't think of anything better to talk about than my vagina.
Don't stop reading now. You knew this post was about my vagina when you clicked on it and perhaps, you was such a pervert that you thought I'd do some typical hippie shit like show you my burning bush and proclaim that I did it in the name of art. Oh no, my frisky little friends. Sadly, this is not why I want to talk to you about my vagina. In fact, I want to be really TMI and tell you about all of the shit that people Google search about in the running/fitness community before contacting their doctors. I'll try to be short, even though I can be long winded as fuck:
1. Why Is My Vagina Leaking?
So glad that you asked! It's very common for high intensity exercise nuts come across a bit more vaginal discharge than normal. The act of running isn't necessarily doing this but the intra-abdominal muscle might be responsible. Don't believe me? Check out this article on Runner's World. I Google searched for you. Don't say I didn't give you anything. You're welcome.
2. Bruh, my vagina is itchy as fuck!
There’s millions of articles and blogs typed up on a daily basis about learning how to properly run and breathe. Controlling your breathing while running helps you preserve energy to go longer distances. After you mastered breathing, you can increase your stride. Your limbs can take you to great distances and in a sense, you can become a tourist in your own home town. Sure, I fell into this cliché. Three or four week ago, I practiced my typical morning ritual. I hit the snooze button four times until I felt compelled to use the bathroom. Washed my face. Threw on some running attire. Since I’m backwards, I checked the weather before heading out of the door.
Honestly, I have been working out harder at the gym for the last few weeks. The days have been blending in together and thanks to an article posted in Self Magazine, listing me as one of 28 Black Fitness Pros You Should Be Following on Instagram, my inbox and social life has been indescribable to say the least. Some of my closest friends feel like I should be on top of the world right now, as I am one of the few people who started off 2017 in such a phenomenal way but I have been quietly falling apart. Fifteen minutes of notoriety is incredible and I’m blessed by all of the wonderful emails received thus far but to my son, I am mom. My nine year old likes to refer to me as the best chef that knows and is fully aware that I am a fitness nut but he loves mom. Mom is a superhero to all of his adolescent needs but he doesn’t know how broken mom truly is when he goes to sleep or when she gets a moment alone.
Frankly, I am feeling a bit hormonal. Perhaps it's Mother Nature reminding me that her rude ass is going to be here very soon. Unfortunately, I've been going through PMDD for years. Imagine PMS leveling up to Gill from the boss battle in Street Fighter III. Fuck you PMDD.
I just started half marathon and obstacle course race training a few Saturdays ago and it always feel like my body is bloating to the size of Texas. Unfortunately, this includes my beloved project door knockers that sit up slightly higher these days thanks to strength training.
Frankly, I'm not as large as some women but my 38Ds like to pretend that they're F cups sometimes and I'm over it fairly quickly. I went to the gym last week wondering why I felt like my breasts were auditioning for Fight Club as I was doing my plyo workout. Around the 40 minute mark, I made one wrong turn and I could hear the tear of my neon bra. My bra suddenly went into ICU and because I had the damn thing for so long, I wasn't going to be frugal enough to repair it.
I heard and know some women who wear two, sometimes three bras when going to the gym. What's a girl to do to save herself from the boobie pain? Here's some tips below:
The last two days have been rough. If it’s not bad enough that I get trolled on a regular basis for being a “fat athlete,” my son was bullied in school yesterday in such a horrific way that I had to go into my level 20 raging bitch mom form. Although I am a self-professed potty mouth, I never relish in the idea of looking like a lunatic mom, especially at the expense of my child or possibly scaring other children at his school. It put me at a level of depression that I found myself crying in an attendance office, screaming at half of the administration, wondering who the hell was going to do anything about the series of events that my son has endured at this school for nearly 2 years. In turn, I forego my workout sessions, took care of family and did my best to reserve my marbles for mental health sake. My duties as a parent are the top of my list and it is by far, the most challenging workout presented to me to date. Does it help that yesterday was my ten year wedding anniversary and we spent the day exploring our options in getting an emergency transfer for our son?
Alas, today is a new day and I woke up this morning seeking solace. After I am done typing this blog, I will be starting the first day of my half marathon training. If I am fortunate enough to land enough funds, I will quite possibly be training for three events that are literally weeks apart. Thankfully, I have been putting in a lot of gym hours since the NYC Marathon in November that I feel confident in my ability to take on such strenuous challenges.
Last week, my 9 year old son almost pushed me to the edge and I expressed a satirical desire to smoke crack. My son, William, Jr, means the world to me but there are a few days where I used his body as a shake weight in my head. I never understood this horrific statement that my dad used to say to me as a kid until I became a parent:
"The more I teach you, the dumber you get!" - Leon Richardson, Dad
Typically, this statement was followed up with chain smoking and watching one strange vein pop up on the left side of his face. Miraculously, even in the dead of winter, you could see pools of sweat dripping down his face as his face would literally go into this strange hue of red. If he smiled, I knew I was already in danger. Unfortunately, like most children, I had amnesia within two minutes and my dad would bitch smack my soul to Jesus' door and give me the typical 1960 - 1990s song, playing on his favorite instrument, the belt, and sing sweet nothings of 'didn't I tell you to do what the fuck I said..." My ass was the hand that the tambourine would tap to every beat. Ah, modern day society might consider that to be child abuse. I prefer to avoid catching a homicide charge on behalf of my child because I actually love him. On days when I feel myself having an Ike Turner moment, I use the gym as my rehab.
Perhaps you are severely traumatized reading this blurb or nervously chuckling because you have a similar story, hopefully not traumatic. You might be wondering what the hell this has to do with my fitness journey, the joys of running, culinary work or anything in relation to what I typically talk about on my blog. Well, I wanted to give you my top five reasons why working out is my form of catching a homicide charge. I promise you weight loss is not on this list. Read and weep.