You know you’re doing bad in a workout class when the instructor comes over to you personally and whispers, “Awesome job, keep it up!” She whispers it because it’s a lie. And if she said it out loud the girl next to you would look over (she can simultaneously turn her head AND plank, she’s that good) and glance at you in that strategic yet completely vacant way that shows you are no longer her competition. She’s engaged and has a Goldendoodle so she’s already up 2 on you anyway.
Once I did so bad in a barre class that the instructor friended me on Facebook after. The little ball you’re supposed to squeeze between your thighs flew out and rolled across a girl’s mat. The instructor was right in thinking I needed a friend after that. Even though they weren’t serving lunch that day, I would have eaten alone. But joke’s on them - I love eating alone.
I’m also bad at running. I always have been. My grade school track coach and I were just baffled at how slow I was. We really scratched our heads about it. I’d watch the chunkier girls fly past me, cursing my parents who fed me apples and cheese and leftovers. What if my body NEEDED Gushers? Kids who were allowed to watch TV M-F beat me every time. Me! The child forced outside to cheat at Wiffle ball and hurl the tire swing at my siblings. How could I be so gassed out there? I’d accumulated miles in my backyard, bounding around, pretending my name was Megan and that I had a tv show about my cool life. (The show was called “Megan and Timmy.” Timmy was played by my brother, Tommy.)
Thinking back, I don’t know if I was even trying or even knew how to try, which sucks. At track meets, I was put in field events in the off chance I might thrive there. I “threw” the shot put ball maybe the length of my own arm, and scratched all 3 tries during triple jump. Triple Scratch I called it. Lord knows how I couldn’t have figured out to skip into sand. What a stupid sport.
As a 5th grader I was fitted for orthotics to correct my weak ankles. I’d been complaining about pain during practice so my Mom took me to Dr. O’Doesn’t Matter. What matters was his love of Ireland and how he thought we shared a special bond - he was his O’ name and me with my love of Tullamore Dew (red hair). Sure, some of my friends were out advancing their womanhood at Claire’s, but I was learning about my heritage from a human leprechaun bathing my feet in plaster. It was genetic in my family (the ankles, not the hair, sorry bitch!) and my siblings all got orthotics as well. “Bad teeth, bad feet, bad eyes,” as my Dad likes to say about us. It’s true. I got braces out of the womb, and learned what a rebate was from the sick perks that came with buying ReNu Bausch & Lomb lens solution.
In high school I ran cross country and by ran I mean went to pasta parties and skipped practice. In my first race I was so behind that people clapped for me as I trotted into the finish. What’s crazy is the girl in front of me had been walking while I was behind her, legitimately running. Truly, I don’t know how this was possible and it feels like a metaphor for something I don’t want to explore right now. In practice, we were all split up into groups by our speed. My group came after the self-proclaimed Tortugas (Spanish for turtle). We were so slow we couldn’t even joke about it.
Running wasn’t really a part of my life in college because I wasn’t a psychopath, but I got back into it afterwards due to the physical effects of having not been a psychopath. Basically I was really fun but it took a toll on my body and I needed to work out. I used to run before work in the morning and it felt like I had a secret. The secret was that I was better than everyone. For a while I worked as a consultant in New Orleans, and before going into the office I’d run a couple miles through the Quarter. Vomit coated the streets like a barf Mardi Gras and I was just astonished at how much I’d “LoOoOved” New Orleans only a matter of hours prior, when I was rolling out of a restaurant full of Sazeracs and duck fat fries, hoping to catch a glimpse of Solange.
Not long after, I gave up running before work and began not running after work. Before work, I felt too swollen from the night before and after work, I was busy beginning the cycle all over again. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice any of this so at one point I got the genius idea to exercise after dinner. After blowing my expense account at Commander’s Palace on turtle soup, stuffed quail, and bread pudding “finished tableside with warm whiskey cream”, I’d go back to the hotel at 10 pm, throw on my workout clothes with my one-piece suit underneath (wait for it) and then slosh back and forth on the treadmill for 20 minutes. Afterwards I’d sit quietly in the pool wondering what had just happened.
This is the turtle soup I ate before running on the treadmill.
I have arthritis in my feet despite not being a soccer player or a ballerina or 80. I saw a doctor in my 20s for this and he told me, verbatim, to “not walk as much.” Another recommended that I wear Shape-ups, those kaiser roll-looking pieces of shit meant to give you a tight ass but instead give people permission to verbally stone you as you walk past their car.
I did get a pair of Shape-ups-esque shoes. I wish this was the only time I wore them.
It’s time to come clean about something. Two years ago, I ran a half marathon. If I were you right now, I would hate me. She talks all about how she’s sooo bad at running, and then delicately drops this timely little brag. But I’m telling you, you can be bad at something and still do it because it’s good for you, like making salads or getting out of the house. And I’m not “10 minute mile” bad. Why not? Because I’m worse. A 10 minute mile is not bad. The Tortugas ran 10 minute miles, and let me remind you that they were faster than me.
I trained for it during winter on a treadmill at the Brooklyn Y. Outside the Y, covered in snow, was a sign with an inspirational quote that really helped me. “I can’t change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.” The quote was from Jimmy Dean, that guy who makes sausages. He really got me through the next couple months before race day (race day makes me blush?) That morning, we all started out in this big corral. Why is it called corral? Are we horses or something? Guess when I’m hungry later I’ll eat out of my TROUGH, then go to the salon for my SHEARING before HOOKING MYSELF UP TO A ROTOLACTOR. (A rotolactor is a machine that milks cows. I Googled this, because while I’m not an animal, I’m also not a dairy professional.) When I finished the race, the folks over at Rock ‘n’ Roll sent me a photo of my finish. I look like I’m fighting for my life, or trying to single handedly eradicate cancer, when really I just wanted to see my Mom and get my free Michelob Light. “Free.”
I couldn’t run the NYC Marathon this year due to the coronavirus (Jk! I didn’t sign up nor would I ever, but wouldn’t that be insane if I just kept being like “ugh I’m so bad at running, and it sucks because I’m training for an Ironman!”) anyway what was I talking about but marathons are on a whole other level. I like when people have their names written on their shirts so you can cheer for them. We should go through life like that. “You can do it, Molly!” as I’m trying to decide which yogurts to buy. “C’mon, Molly!” as I open a door after just moisturizing. I once saw a shirtless guy running a marathon with tape over his nipples and rolled my eyes. But then I saw the guy who had clearly forwent (fogone? fogonneth?) the tape. There were two bloody patches on his white t-shirt. It looked like Panic Pete :(
The neighborhood jog is really all I need. It’s amazing how when you’re running down a hill it’s like this is amazing, I could do this forever, while running up a hill is like this is impossible, I can’t, while running on a flat surface is like this is impossible, I can’t. Running is a stress reliever and makes me feel happy. It makes me want to be a better person. Within minutes of being done I think, Ok, I want to be GOOD. I’m going to volunteer and GIVE BACK. Then 20 minutes later I’m like my poor, poor, sore hip. And oh if the world isn’t a dark place. But I keep at it. I have the same mindset running as I do grating parmesan on a microplane. Just keep going, just a little more, you can do it. I ran on a beach this summer, like a dog but without its legs. It’s so hard. There’s always an 80 year old running on the beach. I usually see one when I’m eating Pringles.
I think it’s supremely annoying when people use self-deprecation as a vehicle to get attention and have people tell them, “No way, you’re not at all like that thing you just said you were! You’re amazing and honestly kind of perfect?!” I don’t like that. The truth is that I’m a relatively fit person who is bad at running, for whatever reason. There are plenty of things I’m good at, like making chicken stock or knowing if someone’s wearing a t-shirt for the very first time, but that’s not funny so it’s not worth talking about. At least not right now.
Every October in Chicago, I’d get a coffee and a croissant and watch the marathon outside of my apartment. The below is inspired by a particular woman who stood next to me one year.
molly, this is truly hilarious! i hope you publish a book of comedic essays one day ♥️ love, greta
Clever and funny. Good read for all of us imposters