jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

One. Mile.

This is a modest goal, at least for normal people. I, however, don’t exercise. I’ve flirted with it, but only in that I’m-backpacking-through-Europe-and-you-don’t-speak-English kind of way. I never meant it for more than a few days.

When I was a pre-teen I had exercise-induced asthma. It’s easy to recall all the fine details of an asthma attack I had in a health-club bathroom, alone and laying on the floor like a landed fish. Thus ended my Jazzercise period.

Bopping around to music can be a little bit fun, until it is miserable. Running starts miserable for me. I feel awkward and graceless, like maybe I’m doing it wrong. Not in the sense of imperfect technique, but in the sense that I might be putting my feet down out of order. My arms huddle in by my sides and my shoulders scrunch up around my neck. It’s less like an adorably gangly Bambi on the ice and more like a duffle bag full of laundry falling down the stairs.

Which is why I want to run one mile. I’m so far below average. I just want to rise to a place that isn’t quite so ridiculous. And if I’m a little fitter at the end of the process then that’s a nice bonus.

I think I’m going to try a beginner running plan I found on the Women’s Health site, but I remain open to suggestions. I plan to start, and now it’s in writing, the third week in September.

I needed a win. I needed an unadulterated victory. And I got it.

BAM!

We’ve been talking about it for a while. We actually went to Atlanta shortly after I wrote that, but our booking got rained out. Stacey offered to vamp up a shoot, but I wasn’t willing to compromise.

Good call.

Two weekends ago we tossed the kids in the car and pelted down to Atlanta to meet Stacey in Grant Park.

The morning went a little bit like this: We fed two boys an early breakfast and then hosed them down. We decided everyone would go to the park dressed and ready, except for Alden. His clothes were rumple-able, so he would ride in his underpants. I’d carefully picked our clothes to be nice, but not formal. Complementary, but not matchy. Neutral, but not dull. Then as I stood at the door with Elliot on my hip, he pooped explosively and torched both my outfit and his. So you may notice that Alden and Damon look ready to go to brunch while Elliot and I look like we’re ready to hit the gym. Improvisation, it’s the central pillar of motherhood. I actually had to dig through our host’s daughter’s closet for a top for myself that didn’t clash horribly. And I faked a bra with a sport tank from the same closet. If you’re wondering why I didn’t have a backup outfit… I can only manage one layer of planning.

So my outfit is wonky. The heat and humidity committed atrocities on my hair not containable by simple ponytail holder. I love the photo. It’s perfect. I’m askew, imperfectly prepared, a little out of synch. All of that is absolutely true of me right now. I love that our photos capture that, but in a compassionate way.

The whole preview set is on Stacey’s blog.