“To the fatty running on the Westview track this afternoon.
You, whose feet barely lift off the ground as you trudge around the track.
You, who keeps to the outside lane, footslogging in the wrong direction.
You, who stops for water breaks every lap, and who would probably stop twice a lap if there were bleachers on both sides. You, whose gaze drops to your feet every time we pass. You, whose sweat drenches your body after you leave, completing only a single, 20-minute mile.
The message begins in this scathing tone. But it slowly takes an astounding turn.
There’s something you should now: You fucking rock.
Every shallow step you take, you carry the weight of more than two of me, clinging to your bones, begging to be shaken off. Each lap you run, you’re paying off the debt of another midnight snack, another dessert, another beer. It’s 20 degrees (Farenheit, -6 Celsius) outside, but you haven’t let that stop your regimen. This isn’t your first day out here, and it certainly won’t be your last. You’ve started a journey that lasts a lifetime, and you’ve started at least 12 days before your New Year’s resolution kicks in.
You run without music, and I can only imagine the mantras running through your mind as you heave your ever-shrinking ass around the next lap. Let’s go, feet. Shut up, legs. Fuck off, fat. If you’d only look up from your feet the next time we pass, you’d see my gaze has no condescension in it.
I have nothing but respect for you. You’ve got this.”
Even if the message began in such an abrasive tone, the end was unbelievably empathetic and motivating. Virtually everyone struggles with a few extra pounds or flaws here and there. Some encouragement and understanding is spot-on.