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To read (or remind yourself) on how I accidentally became a runner, go here.

As I prepared for my first real run, I pulled out clothes that I thought would encourage and motivate me. I grabbed a workout tank my sister got me “Everything Hurts and I’m Dying” because it felt incredibly fitting, and my most favorite of all my leggings – a pair of Nike’s with a cool pattern that said “OREGON” down one ankle, so I could support my Ducks even without the colors.  I laced up my shoes, put my mini-monster in her stroller, grabbed water for both of us, and off we went.

I walked out our door, out to the street, and started jogging, having absolutely no idea how far I’d get, but knowing that I am incredibly competitive with myself, so I’d try to hit a standard that I felt good with.

That’s when it happened.

My pants, my favorite, amazing, Duck-honoring pants started to fall down. And not like, slip a bit as I ran. I mean full on down off my butt type of fall. Being the incredible mix of determined, resourceful, and lazy that I am – I hiked them up and kept going. Looking back, even 10 steps later, I could have told you I should have turned around and changed, but I did not. I am a sucker for punishment if I get to be lazy. I kept running. Praise the Lord for long tank tops, because my pants kept going, and I kept hiking them back up. I went so far as to even tuck my full tank top INTO my pants (fashion sense be damned!) in order to keep those babies up. Nope. I tried rolling them over a few times at the top, thus making them thicker. Nope. I tried running while HOLDING them up, but I was also pushing a stroller and I like to think that my child’s safety comes before my vanity, so I gave up on that approach.

I pushed myself to run to the stop sign, where the street goes to a T and I could feel mildly accomplished, and texted my husband. There I was, .37 miles into my run, telling him my pants were FAR too big, to which I got the well-deserved (and oh so sympathetic) response of, “lol”. I shamefully admit in my frustration I continued venting to ensure he knew how flustered I was and that it wasn’t a joke (although now I think its hilarious and a great sign of weight loss progress) and he garnered the appropriate sympathetic response.

And again, a glutton for punishment, I trudged on.

At the base of the massive and long hill, about .6 miles into my run, I had to stop and decide my course of action. In a moment of clarity, and with certainty that the answer would be “absolutely not” I texted my husband pathetically asking if he would bring me a pair of HIS soccer shorts so I could quick change in the car and continue my run. He answered with a fantastic, “yup, where do you want me to meet you”.

That competitive bug sprang up in me as I thought of my answer, and told him where to meet – a stop sign at the top of aforementioned hill, the .9 mile mark. I figured by the time he got the clothes, got down to the garage, and out the door, I could push myself (and my babe) that far. So up the hill we went! I talked to her the whole time, panting and barely moving while also just letting my pants fall down, and we made it up the hill. Aaron met us about 1 minute after we stopped, and I jumped in the car, changed pants, got a kiss and a laugh and off we went again! I made it 2 miles that day, but honestly, I only know that because I checked my Fitbit. The adventure was far better than the distance.

….Also, I now wear Aarons shorts all the time while running. I have not tried my other leggings, for fear of my Zella’s letting me down too. (January 2018 update: they all are too big, but my family on all sides came through big time in Christmas and birthday gifts. I now have several pairs)