First, a happy birthday wish to Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, The Angriest Cat On Earth. Happy thirteenth, buddy. Please stop trying to mangle my left ankle when I walk into the bathroom on a morning: scar tissue is starting to form above my talus. You’re a rotten bastard, but I’ll hug you when I get home anyway. Kisses.
Next, I’m going to try to keep a montly tally of books read. Here’s January:
1. Stuart McLean – Stories from the Vinyl Cafe
2. Stuart McLean – Vinyl Cafe Unplugged
3. Stuart McLean – Secrets From the Vinyl Cafe
4. Miriam Toews – A Complicated Kindness
5. Kazuo Ishiguro – When We Were Orphans
6. David Rose – They Call Me Naughty Lola
7. Robert C. O’Brien – Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH
8. Diane Setterfield – The Thirteenth Tale (1/2 done)
9. Guy Gavriel Kay – Tigana (1/2 done)
Lastly, I’d like to talk about my new circus trick “the disappearing rack act”. I recognize that a side-effect of training for distance running is weight loss, and I’m okay with that. I like my curves, but muscle tone will replace lost emphasis in the derriÃ¨re and mammaries, and that’s fine. What is *not* fine is that I spent $150 on sports bras only two months ago, and now those sports bras are useless. “Loosey goosey” doesn’t begin to describe the fierce jiggly bouncing action that happens when I get up to a good 6-minute mile pace. I am seriously going to lose an eye. Sports bras are too expensive to replace again if I go down another cup size (is it petty of me not to want to get smaller than a B?) and my breasts are always the first area where fat disappears on my body and, well, it sucks.
To add insult to injury, I’m also suffering from a previously unheard-of titty breakout. For reals. Thanks to good genes and my zero tanning policy, my chest is home to some of the creamiest, smoothest woman-flesh this side of God’s green pastures in the sky. But I guess all the friction and sweat when I’m running has been aggravating the skin between my sweater puppets because it’s red and bumpy and I hate it! At twenty-nine, I consider cleavage acne UNACCEPTABLE. I rage against the machine that has brought me to this impasse: ever-decreasing waistline and improved cardiovascular health, or umblemished boobs? Choose wisely, young grasshopper. Sigh. I choose running. Stupid, sweaty running.