After my Weight Watchers meeting yesterday I headed out to the track for my speed workout. I was feeling slightly peevish because I had posted yet another middling one-pound gain at weigh-in. I'm on a plateau so huge it feels like Tibet. I just cannot get away from the 159-161 pounds range. Sigh.
Anyway, I bopped on down to the track for some 800-meter intervals. At least the weather was pleasant, unlike one week ago when I battled that 30-mph wind and 35-degree temperature before screaming "F@RK THIS!" and bagging it halfway through the workout. I started with a mile warmup and then launched into my first 800. As I was pounding along, a huge gaggle of girls appeared on the grassy slope leading down to the track. It was some local soccer team there for practice. I passed by them on the curve heading into the homestretch in front of the grandstands.
I zoomed past, and then I heard one of the girls say, "Oh my God...look at her muscles." I was wearing my spiffy new Asics shorts (third day in a row!) so my gleaming white (love those Midwest winters...nary a photon of sunlight has hit my skin in six months) legs were out there in all their apparently rippling-muscled glory.
I hereby confess that upon overhearing that comment I kicked extra-hard to finish my interval. All remaining irritable thoughts of my stalled progress at Weight Watchers were swept away. So what if I can't seem to lose any weight? I've worked so hard for these strong legs, these muscles that are now drawing comments from strangers. These legs have carried me almost 300 miles this year, will carry me 13.1 miles in a mere five weeks, and hopefully hundreds more (and a marathon distance) by the end of the year.
Sometimes positive change isn't always about the number on the scale.
Also: Adolescent girls? Squeal a lot.