My talk show Tuesday morning was all about healthy living, exercise, and nutrition. At the end of the hour, I ran out to the store and bought a box of Nerds and some chocolate, because I couldn’t fucking stand all the health for one moment longer. The candy was gone in a half hour. I rule the school.

However, in my defense, I did start running again. I quit when my mom died, and couldn’t seem to find any motivation anywhere. I finally found something – the 5K Race For The Cure in October. You know, so I can sob for 3.6 miles. But I still want to do it.

So Tuesday night, while Shawn sat on the couch with an injured toe, I stretched out, preparing to run for the first time in ages and ages.

Me: “Now, Body, I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. I know a few months ago, I put you through utter fitness hell, then dragged your smoking, drinking, eating-burritos ass across a Seven Mile Bridge. Then, I let you get all lazy and lethargic again. But we’re going to start the fitness stuff again, and we’re going to start slow. So just don’t kill me while I run this mile and a half, and I’ll let you have some ice cream when we’re done.”

Shawn: “What did your Body say?”

Me: “I’m not sure, but it sounded an awful lot like, ‘Fuck you, you psychotic whore.’”

For the record, though, the run went just fine. I don’t have the breath I used to, but it was easier than I thought it would be.

Yay, me. Oh, and Body. Yay, Body.