A Man’s Inner Monologue As He Tries To Get Back In Shape By Running

A Man's Inner Monologue As He Tries To Get Back In Shape By Running

His name is Mark Brewman, and he has been grinding as an unappreciated financial analyst at a medium-sized company in San Antonio, Texas since ‘06.

Mark hasn’t picked up a weight, or done a lap on the track, since marrying his college girlfriend, Jennifer, in the spring of 2008. The only time he works up a sweat is on the toilet, mowing the lawn, hacking the shit out of golf balls on the driving range, or watching women’s tennis. That’s half a decade of complete disregard for physical wellness.

A few months ago, Mark caught Jennifer giving his neighbor a soap-lubricated handjob in the restroom during a dinner party. She moved out two days later. Mark has since recovered emotionally, renewed his lease on life, and decided it’s time to get back in the dating game before it’s too late. But first, he’ll need to get back in shape. He has decided to do so through low-intensity jogging.

The following is Mark’s inner monologue during his first run around the trail at Brackenridge Park after work on a Thursday.

A Man's Inner Monologue As He Tries To Get Back In Shape By Running

Alright, let’s fucking roll. I’m gonna put my body in a time machine and take it back to the old school. Holy mother of God, it’s hotter than hell out here. My Carolla’s dashboard thermometer says 112, but that can’t be right. Whatever, I’ll just sweat out a few more of those 16-ouncers I pounded last night.

Just remember what the doctor said: if you don’t get your shit together, heart disease is pretty much a guarantee. He’s probably being dramatic to get his point across. I mean, I’m not that out of shape, but I’m definitely not in shape. I’m between in and out of shape. Good thing I just copped these new Asics. These babies would give Kevin James the speed of Usain Bolt. Also loaded my iPod Shuffle with a ballin’ motivational mix.

Let’s start it off with a little Eminem “Lose Yourself” and get a solid stretch in. Could I ever touch my toes? I’m barely reaching past my knees and my back is creaking like a tree that’s about to break. Damn, there are a lot of babes out here. All wearing pretty much the same thing, too. Miss Lulu Lemon must be making a killing. Forget stretching, I just look like an idiot. It’s go time.

I can do this, just put one foot in front of the other. Never mind the fact that I’m already rocking sweat rings with a 6-inch radius under my pits. It’s only a 1.1 mile loop. Suck it up, and get it done.

Did an elderly woman just pass me? Seriously, that grandma has to be at least 80 years old. She must be on fucking steroids or something. No performance enhancing drugs here. Just good old-fashioned American hustle, and a nice dose of pre-workout supplement that has my heart pumping like a racecar engine.

I’ve gotta be over halfway home, right? My lungs feel like they’re being roasted by a fucking blowtorch. My head is pounding like a Native American war drum. My chest is tighter than a terrified inmate’s asshole. If I die out here, at least it’ll look like I was trying.

Woah. Look at that bouncing set of chest hammers. I wonder how many sports bras it takes to adequately hold those puppies down. That was a nice 5-second distraction from the fact that I’m about to go into full cardiac arrest. Wait! There’s a water fountain up ahead! I’ll just walk the next few hundred feet to it, and go from there.

Wow. You’ve got to be fucking shitting me. This “fountain” must have the lowest water pressure of any fountain in the country. It’s only squirting out 2-centimeters, and the brownish liquid it’s dispensing is boiling hot. To make matters worse, there’s a distance marker here, and I’m just now halfway through this death march. Gotta maintain composure and power through.

Left shin feels like the bone is about to pierce through my flesh. Right knee feels like it’s about to crumble like an old graham cracker. Maybe I need to see an orthopedist. No…pain is weakness leaving the body.

My arms are too tired to pump anymore. What the hell am I supposed to do with them now? Let them hang lifelessly at my side, swaying back and forth so I look like a retard? Pretty sure my appearance is already clown-like, assuming my face is as red as it feels.

I could be having a cold one on the couch right now, watching a baseball game that I am in no way emotionally invested in. I don’t deserve this. I’ve made the right decisions my whole damn life. I’m the good guy. Fuck Jennifer and her goddamn hand-jobbing. Fuck this trail. Fuck these in-shape yuppies. I’m going to Hooters.


Mark Brewman walked the rest of the loop with his eyes, and self-esteem, in the dirt. Then he got in his car and drove straight to Hooters, giving up on his goal of getting in-shape and back in the dating game, at least temporarily.

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Ross Bolen

Ross Bolen is a New York Times Bestselling author, co-host of the Oysters, Clams & Cockles: Game of Thrones podcast, co-host of the Back Door Cover sports podcast, 2017 Masters attendee, bigger and more loyal Rockets, Astros and Texans fan than you, cheese enchilada aficionado, and nap god.

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