Welcome to the real world (now get yourself some real pants)

I will never forget the day I received my team-issued sweats from my college equipment room.

They were thick and fuzzy and perfect in every way. I loved them.

As a freshman, my sweats didn’t get a whole lot of use, mostly due to the fact that I actually cared about my appearance that year. I spent a considerable amount time picking out outfits and fixing my hair before class. When it became apparent that I was never going to be asked out on a date—because “dating,” in the traditional sense, is the furthest thing from the minds of freshman boys (at least that's what I told myself, although it is entirely possible that I'm just not that attractive)—I dramatically reduced the effort I put into looking cute. My ensemble of choice gradually devolved into jeans and nice T-shirts, then jeans and grungy T-shirts, and finally, grungy sweats and grungy T-shirts.

I would estimate that I wore workout clothes to approximately 80 percent of my class sessions over the course of my college career. I justified my fashion choices with the fact that (a) I was always rushing from class to practice and vice-versa, and (b) I was saving money on laundry by not changing clothes multiple times a day. In terms of pure economic efficiency, I was golden.

The problem is, my clothing habits greatly compromised my perspective on what is and is not appropriate attire in a professional setting. So when I graduated and landed my first grown-up job, I was shocked to learn that tights and hoodies did not meet the standards set forth by the company dress code.

So, for the past several months, I have endured long hours in unforgiving dress pants and itchy blouses. When I get home, I can’t wait to change into gym clothes. Also, I’m pretty sure I now understand what spawned the idea for the tuxedo T-shirt.

I have somehow managed not to mix my work wardrobe with my workout wardrobe. (Interesting, isn’t it, that “work” forms the first half of the compound word “workout?” Just saying.)

The other day, however, I was faced with a dilemma. I was asked to attend an impromptu meeting at a company where I work as a freelancer. I agreed, knowing full well that I would have to go straight from the office to track practice.

Since I was running with the team that day, I put on my tights, T-shirt and half-zip pullover—just like I would any other day.

On my way out the door, I looked in the mirror. What I saw wasn’t exactly the picture of professionalism.

Oh well, I’ll just explain that I’m on my way to practice. They’ll understand.

But as I reached for the doorknob, I started having second thoughts.

I don’t want to embarrass myself, or my boss. But what, exactly, is so embarrassing about exercising? I mean, if it’s acceptable for adults to wear overalls in public—seriously, I saw a full-grown man in a pair of bibs at Walmart last week—then why can’t I wear running gear to a quick employee powwow?

I hemmed and hawed over what to do for a good 30 seconds before finally coming up with a compromise. I would wear real pants over my running pants and then do a quick-change in the car before practice. Problem solved.

By the time I arrived at the office, my legs were sweating profusely, and the odd sensation of wearing double layers made my gait stiff and rigid, like I really needed to go to the bathroom but was trying to hold it in.

This must be what it feels like to wear Spanx on a daily basis. Christ, I’d rather just do a few lunges and some sit-ups!

Suddenly, I felt incredibly guilty about all of the times I dissed Kirstie Alley for lying about being a size 6. Having to wear spandex compression layers underneath every outfit is punishment enough for her blatant dishonesty.

I powered through the meeting, resisting the urge to rip off my pants right then and there. I knew for certain that such an outburst would definitely embarrass my boss, and as a result I would definitely get fired.

When the meeting was finally over, I sped over to the track and grabbed the closest parking spot I could find.

I immediately recognized a huge problem standing in the way of my execution of The Plan. School had just gotten out, and as such, the parking lot was crawling with loud, gossip-fed pre-adults (a.k.a. teenagers).

Judgment and scandal are the cornerstones of the American high school experience, and nothing feeds the 24-hour teenage rumor mill better than whispers about the inappropriate actions of a coach.

All it would take is one little cellphone video shot from an incriminating angle, and boom—my name might as well be Geraldine Sandusky.

So, keeping my back straight and my eyes forward, I slowly unzipped my pants and slipped them off. Then, hit with a momentary stroke of brilliance, I put on a sweatshirt, then, acting as if I was having a sudden change of heart, removed both the sweatshirt and the blouse I was wearing over my running top.

Finally, I slipped my feet into my running shoes, got out of the car and tied my laces. Feeling clever and relieved, I smiled smugly as I jogged through the double doors into the gym.

In hindsight, I think my plan was more of a way for me to “stick it to the man” than it was a way for me to “save time.” In foresight, I will probably just give in to the man and start using a locker room like everyone else.

For the run of it

I don’t know if you, my loyal reader(s), have noticed this phenomenon, but the other day I realized that we runners have a totally sick and twisted self-reward system.

Last weekend, for example, I had a lot of writing to do. (Not the blog kind—the reporter kind that I am [poorly] paid for.)

As I hit the save button on my first of four articles, I thought, “If I can finish the second one before noon, I’ll reward myself with a run.”

I instinctively punched “command + W” followed by “command + N” as quickly as I could and got to work on crafting a passable lead for a story on the high school cheerleading camp.

With thoughts of spirit fingers and pompoms swirling through my head, I abruptly stopped typing and threw my brain into reverse. Had I just promised myself several miles’ worth of pain and suffering in exchange for several hundred words’ worth of pain and suffering?

Most normal Americans reward themselves with things like Starbucks lattes, pedicures or episodes of Toddlers and Tiaras. (OK, I reward myself with Toddlers and Tiaras too, but only because I feel obligated to do something productive in order to justify throwing away an hour of my life.)

But since runners generally get some sort of deranged satisfaction out of punishing their bodies for extended periods of time, we choose that over a cute new pair of shoes. (Unless said shoes happen to be the latest Asics Cumulus model.)

We do the same thing with our weekends. Everyone else spends the week slaving away at their jobs so they can cut loose Friday night and have some well-deserved fun. But what do we do? We get our TGIF on by enjoying a full eight hours of sleep so we can wake up early and—you guessed it—run!

I mean, think about it—how many times have you had the following conversation:

Friend: Oh man, it’s been a reaaalllllllyyy long week. What do you say to a pitcher and a few games of pool?

You: Actually, I was planning to have an early night. I have to get up at 6 a.m. for that half-marathon.

Friend: [Speechless with face displaying a look of utter bewilderment/disgust]

You: Sorry dude. See you Monday.

On that note, since I’m finished with this blog post, I think I’ve earned a nice five-miler. If I run fast enough, maybe I’ll reward myself with a bonus core workout.

The graph is always greener

It’s funny how life works. One day, you’re unemployed and drawing Excel graphs about your comically lame existence. Next thing you know, you have a job and you’re so pressed for time that you find yourself actually reading those Runner’s World articles about how to squeeze a quality workout into your half-hour lunch break.

(By the way, those articles are total crap. The people who write them are obviously unfamiliar with the concept of personal hygiene. Am I supposed to work the remainder of the afternoon smelling like stale tater tots and looking like Britney Spears while she was still dating Kevin Federline? I mean, hello, I’m going to need a little more than 30 minutes if I’m going to change clothes, work out, go home, shower, get dressed and get back to the office. Moist towelettes and Febreeze just don’t cut it for me, especially in the summer time.)

Anyway, now that I’m a functional member of society instead of a deadbeat burden to my family and my country, I’ve found that my newfound obligations as a semi-responsible employee have seriously encroached on my fitness activities—not to mention my reality TV habit and my nightly wine-tasting routine.

I felt it would be both timely and appropriate for me to provide you all with a graphical update that better reflects my new status as a gainfully employed adult. So here you go:

Exceleration

Rejection sucks.

Just ask any guy who ever had his tender teenage heart broken by his dream high school prom date. But after being turned down by Little Miss Popular, at least he could console himself with the knowledge that she and her blonde highlights were way, way out of his league.

Being rejected for jobs that I am totally qualified for, however, is a completely different story. It’s like being turned down by the girl who heads up the high school bird watching club and doesn’t brush her hair.

I graduated college with lofty expectations of immediately discovering and launching myself into my dream career. Several unreturned messages and a few middle fingers (both given and received) later, my outlook has turned from “Reese Witherspoon, Legally Blonde” to “Martin Short, Pure Luck.”

Forget actual skilled positions—apparently, I’m not even qualified to be a secretary at the companies in my field due to my lack of professional experience with multi-line phones and Microsoft Office.

I’ve been told that I just need to tweak my résumé a bit—you know, buff up my qualifications and experience. In blunter terms, I need to lie.

The problem is, when people lie about work experience, they often get caught. Remember what happened to Al Gore when he claimed to have invented the Internet? I’m just not willing to risk that kind of humiliation. Plus, I’m a horrible liar. Even if I were able to fill my résumé with fake work history, I would almost certainly blow my cover in a face-to-face interview, which, I imagine, would go something like this:

Snooty Interviewer: So, tell me about your background and qualifications.

Me: Well, I graduated college with high honors, completed an undergraduate research project, became fluent in Spanish, and earned 12 varsity athletic letters.

Snooty Interviewer: Hmmm…I see. And tell me, did you acquire any experience using Microsoft Excel during your time as a secretary at…what was the name of the company?

Me: Oh, yeah, that was um…Technology Suppliers Unlimit—yeah, actually, I…um…well, I made that up.

To me, it seems entirely absurd that I would have to resort to fabricating experience with Microsoft Excel just to get an entry-level administrative job. No, I haven’t spent the last three years typing numbers into little rectangles, but give me ten minutes—I bet I could figure it out.

In fact, just to prove to myself, my potential employers, and anyone who has nothing better to do than read this blog that I am indeed capable of using Excel in a professional capacity, I have created a series of graphs derived from actual data I entered into an actual Excel spreadsheet. So put that in your chart and wizard it.