Wogging, With Baggage

Ooooh. Life with my new Expedition jogging stroller (yes, not as cool as the Bob, but then in all fairness, I really don't deserve a Bob at this out-of-shape juncture in my life) is...well...rather achy. Good Girl Crystal (while slacking off on eating healthy, ssshhh!) has been out on wogs (jogs with some walking involved) almost every morning this week, and is feeling that burn! The one morning I stayed in was only because it was cold and windy and yucky, and I didn't think it was fair to subject Scarlett to the atmospheric cruelties of my quest for firmer flab.

And flabby I am. As I was telling a friend of mine recently, in my heart I am a distance runner. In my legs and back and lungs, however, I am a post-baby rocking-chair potato, and it's pretty hard to convince those delinquent parts that my heart has the right idea. But I am trying. I have discovered that my neighborhood, which I normally spend a large amount of time complaining about (one must cross the railroad tracks, pass a trailer park, and venture through a neighborhood of manufactured homes to reach my subdivision, and in most of the houses around me dwell at least twelve people with sixteen cars between them, at least one of which "bumps" home sometime after 10pm each night, and hardly anyone takes care of their lawns), actually has a lot of quiet streets with wide shoulders, perfect for wogging. And Squidge is being QUITE cooperative...so far, she just hangs onto the stroller sides all sweetly and quietly absorbs the world until she nods off! I keep waiting for THAT worm to turn, because generally my pretty little devil is just not quite that angelic.

I believe, if I listen to my heart (and ignore my lazy butt, which would really like to stay in bed longer in the mornings) that I can regain my former distance-running ability. Okay, maybe not, although it is still my dearest goal in life to run a marathon someday while I am still reasonably young. The one thing that is gone, however--at least for now--is the fabulous feeling of freedom one gets by strapping on a pair of shoes, hooking one's key to one's sports bra, and heading out the door. No tire patching kits or tubes, no carabiners or special shoes, no paddles and life vests needed. Some call running boring, but for me there have been years of my life where I did my clearest thinking running miles and miles, me and the road and maybe a good hip hop mix. Now, however, it's me, the road, the hip hop mix, the stroller, the Squidge, the flowered blanky, the crazy peacock, the pull-toy monkey, the sucky, the cell phone...

The great thing about the jogging stroller is that packing this crap along is virtually painless, with all its handy little pockets. In fact, the only baggage that's giving me pain is that which resides on my chest. Pain of the "Bewbies," as my friend Jenna calls them, is apparently a fact of post-pregnancy running, and something I've never had to deal with before, given my girls' historic predilection for the "more than a mouthful" camp. And, let's be honest, breastfeeding may have endowed me a LEETLE more, but my B cups (B- and B+, depending on the side) are still by no means traffic stoppers. Yet that doesn't stop them from aching like a mofo after the most innocent little wog. Owwwwwwwww!

The IDEAL jogging stroller, I'm thinking, would have some sort of boobage support extending from the handle...I can see it now! It's going to make me millions...no? Okay, fine. Back to the drawing board. In the meantime, no one hug me too hard!