Say what?

I have taken up running.

All right. Let's give a second for all my reader friends that can remember my permed hair so not waving in the breeze as I refused to even run so much as .0008 of a mile during those pesky Presidential Fitness Tests in grade school, to get up from the chairs they just fell off of laughing, and catch their breath.

Kind of like I have to do every 10 seconds when I run. Or jog. Or feebly hobble along. However you see it. Since I can't see it, I'll just pretend it's at least a jog.

But let's face it. This girl does not jog. And yes. I am this girl.

Friday night, I realized the ridiculousness of this new pastime as I jogged/hobbled around the park near our apartment five times.

And for the record, I was not running all five of those times. Except for when some redneck gave out a "Whoop!" of encouragement while driving by. I'm not sure if it was to shock me into a sprint or indicate that I really need to purchase a more supportive - and confining- sports bra.

I have never been a runner. Speed walker? Yes. Take a trip with me to Target and I'll whip you into shape in no time as you try to keep up with me somewhere between the toilet paper and hair care aisles. Runner? No. I'm pretty sure a turtle lapped me in the park Friday night.

Which is why I really can't explain what has brought me to this method of torture, the madness that actually surpasses mini golf in my varying levels of hell. I'm not worried about fitting into my wedding dress. Certainly don't have an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini waiting for me in my closet. Yellow was never my color anyway. And I sure as hell did not invest in the regimen of diet pills and cellulite creams they were selling at the Brookfield Bridal Expo.

Although I am loving those new gummi vitamins.

As a senior in high school, in a desperate ploy to magically turn my ex-boyfriend/prom date into my boyfriend/prom date I became obsessed with dropping as much weight as possible. Which translated into a no carbs, high in pickles, tuna, beef jerky and insane amounts of water diet. Oh. And don't forget the exercise. Two weeks = -10 pounds. I gained it all back after a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles on the big day.

And I actually got locked out of the house because Dad wasn't expecting me to come home so early. Ouch.

That's me in the middle. Yes. I know. Aside from dropping a ridiculous amount of weight I also tried to stage my first wedding and become the poster girl for why teenagers should not be allowed to go tanning.

But let the record show - even then - I didn't run. Maybe overdose on the circuit at Curves with my mom. But run? Never.

So why am I sitting here - tennis shoes on and hair pulled into a 'do that would rival Pebbles?

Beats me.