That'll Do, Pig. That'll Do | Jackson Free Press | Jackson, MS

That'll Do, Pig. That'll Do

I sat in my driveway, in my running car, staring at the thermostat. A week ago I'd been complaining about the cold snap and rain interfering with my ability to run. Now, after having missed the chance that morning, I was staring down the barrel of Ninety-Four degrees.

It had been a bear of a day, this "hairdresser's Monday," and I just didn't have much fight left in me. I'd wailed on myself for not running that morning, for eating a regular sub rather than a small and I'd not felt mentally engaged at work. As days go, it just wasn't one for the books, and I couldn't wait for it to end.

I found Justin in the kitchen, preparing something like a fish taco with some whacky gluten-free wraps and quinoa he'd found at Rainbow. Honestly, I was glad not to have to think about cooking, as I was certain that would be a disaster too.

"What the hell are these made with, bark and pig semen?" I balked.

"It's good for you." was all Justin would say.

I made a vodka soda with three limes as Justin answered the door. Our friend Elizabeth had stopped by to pick up some of the questionable wraps Justin had found. She looked longingly at my cocktail.

"I can't have one." she blurted out. "It's not on the list."

These two will try any fad diet endorsed by any D-list celebrity. I'd wager that, if Kanye said he'd lost Twenty pounds by drinking nothing but Taylor Swift's tears, they'd try that too.

"Y'all do realize you could just run and eat whatever you want, right? I said, casting my best judgey eye.

"Edward, this is an elimination diet." she returned.

"A whaaa?" I asked, feigning interest.

"It's supposed to reveal what, if any, food allergies you might have." she answered, waiting for a lightbulb to go off over my head. I left the two of them fawning over each other's outfits and went to the bedroom.

There, where I'd left them yesterday afternoon, sat my fancy new running shoes I'd gotten at Fleet Feet. They seemed to be looking up at me like puppies, waiting for a pat on the head. 

Yesterday morning I'd met my girlfriend, Kim, in her neighborhood for a three mile run. We've made Monday our day to inspire each other, and she'd picked a route that was the perfect amount of challenging. After a trip to the supermarket for my week's supply of proteins, veggies and fruits, I'd puttered around the house until it was time to run to Terry's house.

Having adjusted our schedule to two full body workouts during the week, he'd decided to fling a beating on me that left me feeling like it was my first time exercising.  Just when I reach a level of comfort, my Fitness Jesus ratchets up the crazy another couple of notches. Yesterday's session put me in the bed for a two hour nap with my body alternating between hot flashes and cold sweats. I thought to myself "This has to be how it feels to be Paula Deen." ,then blacked out.

On this day, however, I just stared at the Sauconys from the corner of my bed, and I reasoned with myself that sometimes "enough is enough." Of course, there was another voice in my head, you know the one that waves pom poms, while doing the splits and shouting "Just do it!" I let those two fight it out in an epic battle that lasted about the time it took to make a refill.

Later, after complimenting Justin on his fish tacos and black beans (the quinoa hadn't "turned out") I made another drink and retired to the bedroom for a couple of hours watching anything narrated by Morgan Freeman. It had been the kind of day where I'd beaten myself up for nothing in particular, and also let goals slide until I could psych myself up again.  

Before I drifted off to the sound of Mr Freeman's silky voice, I imagined Terry, or some combination of him and Deepak Chopra, patting me on the head and saying "That'll do, pig. That'll do."

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