Treat yourself

I attacked a bag of potato chips today, showing no mercy. Don't worry, though; it was over in a heartbeat and they felt nothing.

I started running again, just to enjoy my favorite food groups -- potato chips, cocktail nuts, Snickers. Not that I couldn't do or haven't done that anyway, but ultimately it's not a pretty sight.

I'm up to two miles now, and really slow. A fact embarrassingly apparent as Albert doesn't seem to realize we're running at all. He keeps up just fine by alternating between a brisk walk and a mild jog. But that's better than two weeks ago, when my pace was such he could inspect his favorite fire hydrants. (Why yes, he is that much of a cliche.)

Like Prius owners and vegans, runners are a smug and clubby lot. When we see each other on the street, we give the nod -- the secret nod -- the one that says, "Don't I look good!"

To stay in the club, I kick it into third gear when another runner comes along, else Albert's gait would give me away. I take long graceful strides, with arms pumping, head up, and hair flying. But exertion -- i.e., actual exercise -- comes at a price. When the danger has passed, I stop and lean on the hood of a car, gasping for air -- sweet, sweet oxygen.

Inevitably, at that very moment, someone I know crosses my path.

"Karin, what are you doing?"
"I'm running."
"Are you ok?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Because you don't look so good."

Life is short, miles are long.