I don’t think my body was made for running.
I took a human evolution class in college, and the professor presented his theory that early humans evolved as a species because our bodies were uniquely suited to long-distance running. Our quick-cooling slender body shape, our flexible cervical spine keeping our heads steady with our body in motion, and other traits allowed us to successfully hunt large prey animals, like zebras, by simply chasing them for long distances in the hot sun until they collapsed from exhaustion.
I must’ve descended from the zebras.
My body type as a little girl was the sort that made people say, unprompted, “Kids grow out, then up.”
They were mostly right, but I could’ve used some extra inches up.
I wasn’t unathletic. I was very into horseback riding, the only sport you can do sitting down.
But running has always been a slog. I used to dread the mile test in gym class. I’d try my hardest, but my lungs would burn, my sides quickly cramping with a stitch.
Yet every spring, I make a halfhearted attempt to get into running. I long to be one of those people who craves a run. I want the trim body, the quick calorie burn, the endorphin rush.
You know, the results.
But after a winter of hunkering down on various deadlines and letting my fitness go by the wayside—and a little on the backside, but I’m most bothered by the middle frontside—I decided I had to just do it! I would learn to love running through sheer will.
First, I tried to buy enthusiasm. I ordered new, custom-colored Nike sneakers to trick myself into getting excited about cardio.
I went for an inaugural run, full of optimism.
But even my optimism was out of shape.
After a half hour, my left knee hurt so badly I could barely walk home.
Everyone said I probably had the wrong sneakers.
The wrong, unreturnable, custom sneakers.
So I went to a running store called Jackrabbit, another animal better suited to running than I am. I brought my dog Pip for moral support.
The salesman asked me to jog on a treadmill while he filmed my feet in order to analyze my stride. He held on to Pip’s leash while I did so.
As soon as I began to run, Pip lost his mind. My normally mellow pup barked his head off as if the treadmill were trying to kill me.
I always said he was smart.
The salesman showed me the video, shaky as it was thanks to Pip’s freak-out, but even I could see my ankle collapsing inward with every step.
He shook his head and informed me that I’m a serious “over-pronator.”
In addition to my wonky stride, my arches are too high, and I run slightly duck-toed, all of which adds to my knee pain.
Over a hundred dollars later, I was the new owner of bulky stability sneakers, advanced orthotic inserts, and an inferiority complex.
How is it possible that I’m so naturally bad at my species’ seminal advantage?
Maybe my running genes have been watered down by my Italian heritage, generations of breeding that favors painting, writing, and other butt-based activities.
Italian cardio is mostly wild gesticulation.
Our endurance is judged by one’s ability to stand in a hot kitchen.
I once fried sixty-five meatballs in a galley kitchen in July using only a ten-inch pan. Where is my medal?
But that’s my background; the American in me is a relentless striver.
So I’m lacing up for another miserable run.
Here’s hoping I can evolve.
If You’re a Woman, They Only Want One Thing
Lisa
We’re having a moment, this election season.
By we, I’m talking about Women in the Philadelphia suburbs.
Like me.
I live in the Philadelphia suburbs.
In fact, it’s all about me.
These days, you cannot turn on a TV channel, listen to the radio, or read an article online without hearing about whether one of the political candidates will get the vote of the Woman in the Philadelphia suburbs.
MEEEEEEEE!
I don’t know how this started, but probably with political pundit Chris Matthews, who’s from the Philadelphia suburbs, and Jake Tapper, who’s also from the Philadelphia suburbs, and Michael Smerconish, who’s not only from the Philadelphia suburbs, but still lives in the Philadelphia Suburbs.
Okay, full disclosure, Smerconish once had his book club read my latest book and he also nicknamed me Hottoline.
That’s right, me.
Hot.
It was a long time ago, okay?
I cleaned up well, back then.
When I actually cleaned up.
Anyway, with the spotlight being on Women in the Philadelphia Suburbs, the candidates and their celebrity surrogates visit here all the time.
It’s swinging to be in a swing state.
And the political commercials are nonstop. Some people don’t like them, but I do. Especially since my other choice is a catheter commercial.
Plus my phone is ringing off the hook.
I keep hoping it’s Bradley Cooper, but it’s not.
He has my cell phone.
And my heart.
To stay on point, the calls come on my landline, which is a giveaway for robocallers and other calls that I ignore.
But not in election season.
Pollsters are calling to ask questions about the election, and I take the call. I answer every question they have. I yap and yap about my views. In the beginning of our phone conversation, they love talking to me. They’re so used to being abused that they keep asking me questions, and I keep answering.
Then they can’t shut me up.
They try to say good-bye, but I won’t let them.
I talk and talk and talk.
In the end, they hang up on me.
I make them sorry they ever called a Woman from the Philadelphia Suburbs.
I turn the table.
The kitchen table.
Heh heh.
Why do I do this?
Because I might never get another chance.
Because it’s taken too damn long for anybody to care what suburban women think, whether they live in the Philadelphia, Cleveland, New York, Los Angeles, Boston, Atlanta, Dallas, or any other suburb.
Because we’ve heard ourselves called soccer moms, hockey moms, dance moms, and every other kind of mom, whether our kids play any sport or whether we’re moms at all. Because we’re not considered, much less considered individuals. We’ve heard ourselves talked about, but never talked to, and more importantly, listened to.
We’re women, constituting over half of the population of the United States, and we should count more than we have in the past.
Because even though we’re marketed to for purchases from backpacks to eyeliner, boob jobs to liquor, we’re rarely asked what we think.
And when we answer, nobody listens.
And if they listen, nothing changes.
So I hope that women in whichever suburbs—as well as women in the cities or exurbs—will finally get some attention. I hope that people will finally care about what we think, even if they never have before, in our lifetime.
Maybe we shouldn’t be picky. We’re used to being wanted for our bodies. It’s an improvement to be wanted for our votes.
Plus you have to start somewhere. It’s almost a century after we got the vote, and they just realized we have one.