Ready to Run

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Last night I was pumped to get my jog on.

That means I had one of my favorite pair of running pants on- the ones I got from Costco that fit snug in the waist and cover my feet and long legs well.

I wore my teal sports bra- it's the one that holds deez babies in no matter how hard I hit the pavement.

I sported a form-fitting casual tee.  It's not one of those sports bra things some girls wear when they hope people are looking their way and seeing their boobies bounce (see above about a proper-fitting sports bra).  No, no, thank you ma'am, just conservative cotton up top for me will do.

My sneaks were laced tight.  I wore my Adidas.  The ones my boo got me for Christmas that fit a little too big since I gave birth but are still pretty comfy and do the job of getting me around the track.

My socks were white, thick, cottony goodness and likely didn't match because I hate that part about laundry (matching socks that look so similar and yet aren't and who cares because no one can see them...)

I stretched.

I reached, I extended, I pulled and did a few hop thingies to really seal the deal on my upcoming run.

And then,

I put in my earphones,

which meant it was "Go" time.

I pulled up my Pandora and awaited one of my favorite dance tracks to start-up.

As I waited for the station to shuffle it's way to one of Britney or Lil' Wayne or Rihanna's greatest I hit the pavement. 

I was so well prepared I kicked up a lil' dust as I darted onward, focused...
I was eagerly awaiting the first track to start and catch up with my momentum,

and then,

a Barbados-esque ballad started.

No,

It wasn't Rihanna.

"WTF!", I thought.

I was dismayed that my stride was broken by the slow beat of maracas and the painstakingly slow rythym of Caribbean membranophones drumming along soooooooooooooooo slowly.
My pace slowed to match the beat (or lack thereof). 

Midway around that first lap of the track I looked down at my phone's screen, wondering how my Pandora could possibly be playing a song from...

"What's this?!?"

The  Little Mermaid.

(You know, that make-out song from when Ariel and Eric were taking a boat ride together...)

And then,

it hit me.

I remembered standing in a line,

in some store,

holding my daughter that was quickly getting bored.

In an effort to avoid a sure meltdown I created a Pandora station just for her- Disney Radio- so we could quietly sway to some Elton John while awaiting our turn to be served.

And I guess I didn't change it back to one of my tell-tale stations that would automatically start-up to something with a fast-tempo and sultry lyrics that, if you really listen, don't make much sense but I listen to anyway because I'm holding on to what's left of my youth and anyway somehow fast music makes my runs significantly faster and fist-pump worthy so sue me.

On that track-field, I sure looked like a runner, geared head to toe in so much branding you'd think I was sponsored.

I felt like I was a runner.

But that song, in that moment that brought a half-annoyed smile to my face, reminded me that I am a mommy no matter where I go... or what I do.... with or without my little one.  Her presence is all around me.

I allowed the cruise-ship tropical, Jamaican homage sing-song lyrics of "Kiss D' Girl" to play on for a moment longer before I switched back to my "Britney Spears" radio station.

Because although I love being a mommy and having my little reminders of the wee lass with me at all times,

Bikini season is coming up.

And a cute preggo belly only works when you're actually pregnant, apparently.

And there's no soundtrack for not being able to fit into a swimsuit, unfortunately.



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