Free Chicken Soup for the Dieter's Soul by Jack Canfield Page B

my reflection: one day I would run a mile, if not with ease and grace, at least without sounding like a steam engine. And I’d wear waterproof mascara so I wouldn’t look like a raccoon at the finish line.
    Over the next few months, I arrived at the club an hour before my squash game and forced myself upstairs to the track. I ran clockwise and huffed. I ran counterclockwise and puffed. After being rear-ended when I slowed suddenly, I learned to keep to the outside of the track in the “slow” lane when another pair of feet pounded behind me. I considered slapping a bumper sticker on my rear end that said “Beginner Runner—Beware” but decided anyone close enough to read the sticker was about to crash into me anyway.
    I used a clicker to record the laps. Not that I couldn’t count, but it made me feel more like a real runner. Although my laps started adding up, they still didn’t total the magic number eight. I kept at it. Two months passed and I spent more time running and less time huffing and puffing. Other runners stopped offering to drive me to the emergency room of the nearest hospital.
    Then came the day I stopped thinking and simply ran, feet pounding and arms pumping at my sides. Just me and the track. The laps glided by until I glanced at the clicker in my hand and saw the counter change to seven. Only one more lap stood between me and my goal. I ran on.
    I rounded the last turn, crossed the finish line and stopped in amazement, nearly knocking down the guy behind me. I apologized and hastily stepped off the track to savor my victory. I had done it. I had metamorphosed from couch potato to Queen of the Track. Okay, maybe just her lady-in-waiting.
    Having conquered the mile, I’ve set new goals. I’ve started training for two miles. Next I’ll go for three miles. Then four miles. Then marathons—though at the rate I’m going, I’ll probably be running in the geriatric category. I don’t care. I am runner—hear me roar!
    Harriet Cooper

Facing the Lady in the Mirror
    F itness—if it came in a bottle, everybody would have a great body.
    Cher
    Pudgy, never quite good enough—that’s what the lady looking back at me from the mirror preached. I swallowed all of it.
    My daughter’s Christmas present changed everything. It looked innocent enough: a few printed lines in an envelope. But my stomach turned inside out as I read them—a gift certificate for twenty-four fitness classes. My daughter smiled expectantly. I smiled back through clenched teeth.
    That night, the lady in the mirror yelled at me. “Ignore the gift,” she said. “You can’t display your pudgy body at the gym.”
    January came; the lady in the mirror convinced me to do nothing. February rolled around; she won again, and the guilt grew. March arrived; another round with my nemesis ended up in a screaming match. By the time April came, I stood up to her, for my daughter’s sake; I’d find a way to survive the humiliation. But she smiled wickedly. I stalled once more.
    Out of excuses and scared to death, I eventually entered the dreaded fitness center on a Monday in May, wearing an oversized T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. The young girl at the desk was a size 2 at the most—she probably never ate a cookie in her life. She pointed to the aerobics room.
    When I walked in, the lady in the mirror stared back at me. Who let her in? The entire front wall was one huge mirror, top to bottom, left to right! No place to hide. My pudgy arms, jiggly thighs and enormous buns looked back at me. I had to get out of there.
    But just as I made my move to the door, the music started and the crowded room came into order. I was shoved into place. The instructor said the aerobic segment would last thirty-five minutes. Thirty-five little minutes— maybe I could survive them.
    I did my best to move to the motivational music. The singer told me I looked good today, but she was lying. Ask the lady in the mirror, she’ll tell you. While the singer told me