My body thinks I am trying to kill it

A few months ago, I realized that I have feelings for a man that may or may not have feelings about me.  That's another story that you can read here: Dear Guy That's Not Into Me  The reason I brought this up is that I finally got off my keister (literally) and started exercising.

Yes, I realize that is a bad word in my world (exercise, not keister), but I was tired of hating the way I felt when I put my clothes on in the morning and hating what I saw in photos.  I want to be able to play with my son as he grows without either of us being embarrassed by my performance.  I also want to be seen as date-able.  If I didn't like what I saw in the mirror, then how could I expect someone else to like me?  Both inside and out.

I used to say that if you saw me running you better run, too, because something was chasing me.  I have come to the conclusion that my demons are the what is actually chasing me.  No, not literal demons, but the demons of decisions past that come out to play when I have too much time to think.  I put on a combination of Eminem's and Pitbull's new albums, and I go.

Many, many months ago, I stole my parents' treadmill and put it in my garage.  I started out walking slowly and slowly increased my pace the longer I did it.  I have a couple of friends that had already made the choice to be healthier, and they both lost significant amounts of weight.  The right way.  And it showed.  They inspired me to get up off my ass, stop putting things in my mouth, and get moving.

I used a combination of the My Fitness Pal app to track my calories and my competitive spirit to combine diet and exercise, and it worked.  Almost 30 pounds lighter, I'm now up to running anywhere from 1/2 to 1 1/2 miles with a full 5K workout several times a week.  Planking and burpees have helped my core, my breathing, and my strength.  I've signed up for a 5K race at the end of February, and I'm scared to death.

My breathing still stinks, and I'm afraid that I'll get out there and pass out.  Or throw up in front of a hot guy.  Or have to walk most of it.  Before the panic sets too far in, I remind myself that I'm doing it.  Period.  I'm out there, and I'm trying, and that counts for quite a lot.

I'm also back into my pre-pregnancy clothes that I haven't been able to wear in five years.  I feel great.  I look great.  Maybe I'm ready to be great.