I was never an athletic child growing up. I didn’t play any sports. I couldn’t run more than an eighth of a mile; I would get one of those awful cramps in my side. I only rode my bike to my friend’s house, and maybe the convenience store every now and again. I did the bare minimum in gym during middle and high school. I didn’t take another physical education class after ninth grade, until tennis in community college. I was terrible at any sport involving a ball.
After meeting my husband, a college athlete, I got into exercising. Not anything extravagant, but I worked out. I also definitely ate a lot of Mexican food and pizza. I was fit-fat. Fit”ish”, if you will. I didn’t workout through either of my pregnancies. One week after I gave birth to my second son, I hit the gym. I was determined to get the baby weight off. I was so determined I even took up running. I had never run a mile in my life until after I hit 30. My best friend with asthma, ran a half-marathon, so I figured I could at least run a mile. I started lifting more weights about a year later, and by the time my youngest son was two, I was lifting consistently. I kept getting stronger and leaner. I also laid off the pizza and Mexican food. I developed some bad ass looking vascularity, and I became oddly attached to my bicep veins.
About fifteen months ago, right after I ran my first 8k, I started to struggle with my runs. I couldn’t breathe, and my legs felt heavy. Incidentally this is right around the time I started to train my legs with heavy weight. The internet and media told me I need a big butt for people to love me, and I believed them. Running helped me manage my depression and anxiety. Without running the depression and anxiety became pretty damn severe. It interfered with my motivation to hit the gym and lift. I was a two, or more, hours in the gym, 5 days-a-week, person at that point. I would work out at home sometimes, but my workouts were not like what I had been doing before. I started gaining weight (still am), and that made me even more frustrated.
I made the decision in Mid-May I was going to start running again, no matter how slow I was, I was going to run 3 miles. That was the goal. I wasn’t as slow as I expected, and I ran those first 3 miles in under 29 minutes. At the beginning of July, I decided I was going to start going to the gym and begin lifting again. If I could get back into running, I could get back into lifting. After only four weeks in the gym, three-to-four days a week, I am noticing a big difference. I am getting stronger. I love feeling when the weight I was working out with, now feels light. I love that I am seeing muscle definition again. Although, my vascularity hasn’t really come back yet. I am still struggling with my weight, but at least I know it isn’t because of my lack of effort. My workout motivation is returning, and I am feeling much better about that. For every fitness goal I reach, I make new ones. I am still running, too. I am no longer worried about having a booty. My husband doesn’t seem to have a problem with my ass, and I can’t see back there anyway. I am working on strengthening my posterior chain. I am focusing on training my legs for running endurance. I am focused on having badass guns. My biceps and triceps are going to look amazing. I have faith that Betty the Bicep Vein will make her resurgence. I will post to instagram when she returns, as it will be a momentous occasion. It will be glorious! The gym is my church, and racks of weights are my alter. Betty is my Jesus, and I will bask in all her glory.
I love going to the gym; just don’t talk to me, I’m praying. I ain’t got time for that!
Lost in Resolute Reverie 
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