Here’s my AIDS Marathon running group after last week’s 7-mile training run. My friend Matthew (second from right) is perhaps the BEST team leader in the history of team leading. Not only is he preternaturally perky—even at six fucking thirty in the morning on a Saturday—but he remembers everyone’s names and he cheers on the other running groups
But what is up with my posture in this picture? It looks like I got my running bra hooked in the waistband of my pantyhose. And don’t get me started on my doughy white legs. The 225-lb squats are definitely adding bulk down there, but I gotta get me some of that ripped, veiny action going on if I’m gonna get the chicks. Of course, I had just run seven miles at probably the worst day of my eight-days-and-counting cold, so cut me some slack, willya?
See the shoes I’m wearing? They’re Brooks Adrenalines, the shoes I got custom-fitted for two marathons ago. They’re the shoes I’ve been buying over and over every 100 miles right off the rack with no problems whatsoever—they’ve never needed breaking in and they’ve never given me any pain. Until now. This is the fifth pair I’ve bought, and for some reason these new shoes are doing CRIPPLING things to my ankles and shins.
Of course, the problem could be in my pasty-white grandma legs or my human-question-mark posture, so I’m not gonna send the people at Brooks a cigar box full of human fingers just yet. (Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when your shoes don’t fit? I missed that episode of The Sopranos, so I’m never sure.)
Oh—and my New Running Buddy I’ve been spending so much time with lately? He’s the handsome fella right next to me. The one whose legs don’t look like they belong on a Biedermeier piano.
(P.S. Feel free to click on that red square under my mugshot and sponsor me—if not for the AIDS Foundation then at least for the Society for the Prevention of Questionable Posture.)