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Hi, my name is Elizabeth, and I'm a jogging fool. Yes, I admit it. I've kept it hidden for several months now, but I must come clean. I crawl out of bed, eat a light breakfast that consists of orange juice, banana and whole wheat toast with peanut butter. I slip into moisture-wicking gear (running bra, shorts and socks) and a pair of Nike Pegasus running shoes. After I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, I mosey on down to the basement, do a few warmup stretches.

The TV remote rests in a cubby hole on the treadmill, so I grab it, zap the TV, surf around until I find something interesting to watch, mute the sound. Onto the treadmill go I. Next comes the insertion of earbuds from my MP3 player, which is strategically attached to my treadmill with a Velcro strap. I thumb through my musical files until I find "Running Music." Catchy title, huh? No mystery there. It's something I downloaded online because you know me, I can't do anything without music.

In a matter of seconds, an electric guitar explodes in my ears, followed by a cool driving beat. A smooth female voice speaks up: "Welcome to MP3 Running. This track is designed for intermediate runners, and you should be able to run at least half an hour easily before working with this one. For the next 45 minutes, we will guide you through each section, improving your performance and overall well-being with each session. A positive experience for body and mind. Are you ready?"

"Indubitably," I reply.

"Let's go."

And so I crank up the speed on my treadmill and commence to run. For... three... miles. And every time I find myself in this active condition, my little voice inside says, I can't believe I'm doing this!

Then hubby comes downstairs and says, "How do you do that?"

And my home-for-the-holidays son and his home-for-the-holidays friends say, "How long did you just jog? I can't believe you're doing that."

And friends come over and say, "When are you going to stop? I can't believe you're doing that for 45 minutes. Are you insane?"

Even the cats, who trot downstairs to use their litter box, give me a look of utter confusion.

So the consensus around here, obviously, is that this new venture of mine is un-be-lievable. Unreal. Lacking even a modicum of credibility. If I were a book, I would've been hurled across the room by now.

Yet I go on jogging. Five times a week, three miles per session. A total of fifteen miles per week. I no longer have backaches, I no longer toss and turn in bed and I've dropped from a size 18 to a size 14. (Sorry I can't provide an exact number of poundage lost, but I don't weigh myself. Scales can't take into account the increase in lean body mass and a decrease in body fat, so a person who participates in exercise could become frustrated if she relies solely on scale numbers that don't seem to move. Let loose clothing be thy guide, I say!)

And get this—apparently, the more you work your muscles, the stronger they become. Yeah, who knew? So you move faster and longer without feeling as though your heart is going to burst out of your chest and flop around on the floor. And suddenly you can't quit. You time yourself. You check your speed. You think, I bet I can go faster than that. Or If I really push it, I bet I can go four miles.

Four miles? Did that just come out of my head?

If I continue down this nutty path, I might eventually try to sign up for one of those 10K races and ask merchants to sponsor me to raise money for a good cause and... Well, I don't even want to think about it. An intervention is needed here, folks, because I am clearly out of control.

Hardly an appropriate way to begin a new year.

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This issue 
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under the musical 
influence of...



COLDPLAY
Viva la Vida