If I don’t run this morning, then I simply will not fit into the skinny jeans my wife bought me. If I don’t run and I wear the skinny jeans anyway, my stomach will hang over the unnecessary belt, my shirt will bulge in the middle, and my stomach will ache from the pressure. Conclusively, I will either find myself in the bathroom multiple times...a victim of a great ruse, or pissed off from my own slobbery.
So I ran this morning. But, the jeans were still tight. I decided to run the next day as well, and to be on the safe side, I will run the rest of the week. Seven days later, I find myself looking in the mirror, wearing the curious-looking skinny jeans, and at a pale muffin top trying to escape over the side of my hand-crafted leather belt.
Self-medication is the answer. The race director is the apothecary. “50 Miler” is what he prescribes, but I don’t think it is legal. It must be taken in a single dose, he says. Down the hatch, with effects visible in 8 hours. This is why I run.
After the prescribed term, I find myself looking in the mirror again, wearing the skinny jeans my wife bought. The side-effects from the medicine are sharp pains, mainly in my gut, mainly from the belt buckle stabbing my stomach, which is still grasping over the edge of my pant waist.
I am a broken man. I returned to my home, and stand in front of my wife, head down…solemn. This is as good as this body will get, I tell her. She looks at me lovingly with a smile, and says:
“Why are you wearing my jeans?”
