Ordinarily, I’m a big fan of the running dress — literally pull on ONE thing and have my sports bra and shorts AND something I can pass off as reasonably cute when I stop for my coffee? Sold.
But then, as anyone who lives in the DMV will tell you, our summers make you think you’ve somehow transported yourself into someone’s old gym bag… that’s been left all day in the trunk of a black car. It’s hot AF so you sweat. But it’s humid AF, so there’s NOWHERE for the sweat to go.
So you sweat some more. Bought some running gear that claims it’s “wicking” or promises “super dry”? Our summers laugh in your face, as within a mile of running, you’ll be wringing that fancy gear out like a towel. Throw in climate change bringing us to the hottest summer on record, and you’ll find yourself quickly considering if you can just finish your workout Lady Godiva-style.
Really, What the Forecast app is the only way to describe this world.
Twice in three days, for instance, so much sweat dripped down my headphone wires that I got an iPhone warning ⚠️ that I’d need to let my port dry out. ICK!
So in that kind of “I’m close to ruining my electronics” humid hot mess, even the thinnest extra layer feels like too much, turning my trusty running dresses, with their built-in layer of support & shorts, from breezy to “did I just wrap myself in Saran Wrap?” saunas.
Well, duh, you’d say: just whip off the top and go in JUST a sports bra, so at least you can catch whatever bits of breeze might pass your tummy.
But...
Show my jiggling belly? Ummm…
My feminist ideals say I’m letting old patriarchal constraints control me. Take up space! They call “Don’t let them tell you to be small!”
My skepticism of hyper-capitalist consumerism says I’m allowing a bunch of marketing campaigns or Instagram algorithms make me feel bad just so I’ll buy something to “fix” my perfectly fine body. “You’re not going to fall for that!” It tells me.
My desire to model body positivity for my Tiny Overlord and be the type of cool, confident person I want pushes back. “All bodies are good bodies!” It cries
But...
My full, actual self … the one who was teased constantly as a chubby kid …then mocked more as an “overweight” middle schooler… then praised when I starved myself into a body that matched the low-rise jeans and spaghetti strap camis sold at Delias and Urban Outfitters and all those denizens of late-90s teenager hood (even though it left me so unhealthy I’d occasionally pass out and created disordered eating that took me well into my 20s to work my way out of) … well, that full actual self DOESN'T always feel great about a belly that wiggles and jiggles.
It’s important for me to recognize my own thin privilege here: I’m a size that is considered “standard,” meaning I can go into most any store and find things that fit reasonably well; I can talk to my doctors without having concerns brushed off as a “symptom” of my size, like sadly so many others experience.
And yet, even with all that, even with the intellectual knowledge that my body is a strong and awesome one, that a body capable of running at all is such a lucky and wonderful thing, it’s still hard for me to just put on the dang sports bra and go.
But...
It’s so hot. Heat indexes over 100 for a solid week here. And I’ve committed to a 10k on New Year’s Eve, plus of course the Pittsburgh half marathon in May. My max run now is at about 4 miles, so if I want to get to 13.1 in 9 months, that’s adding a mile a month.
Which means, even in this gym-bag-sweat-box weather, I need to be going out 4 or 5 times a week. I’ve learned my lesson after building too fast and getting sidelined for a month — which means bit by bit, a quarter or half mile add at a time.
And which also means, even if I can’t do it with the feminist-take-up-space confidence I wish I had, even if there’s the ghost of middle school bullies telling me I don’t look right … I’m just going to put on the damn sports bra and go. Jiggles and all.
Yup, I'm looking anxious as I pass the epicenter of toned 20-somethings....
I don’t have a magic formula for how to do it. Frankly, I have to steal from the famous Nike slogan … or the advice so I have given mom friends about being terrified of the (literal and figurative) mess of potty training … you just do it.
Yup, when I whipped off my top and let it all out I felt … well, exposed. Passing by the “luxury” high rises that tower all along the main commercial area I have to cross to get to my favorite trail, which are nearly universally populated by fit young mid-20s types (cause who else won’t mind paying half their take-home pay for the benefit of a roof deck and a dog spa?), I felt the eyes of all the taut and toned Lululemon girls on me, just like being back in middle school, pulling my already-baggy T-shirts away from my tummy.
But then, I felt the breeze. For about 3 seconds, I felt cool. Well, cooler -- I mean, it's still a sweat box. And I realized, dang, any more space I can get a bit of that air? I'm here for it.
Well, and I also realized the Lululemon girls are all looking at their phones anyway — definitely not some middle aged mom sweaty her face off with her hulking jogging stroller.
I’d love to say I have now morphed into full confidence. I haven’t.
But I will say, the second time was easier. And I will say this: any moment of cool breeze on your skin is a moment you deserve, too. Wiggles and jiggles and all.
