Running in Color

Last I wrote, I was all kinds of excited about the 10K I did in San Francisco in August. It was a great experience, and I enjoyed the process of training for something, setting a goal, and completing a 10K without being hauled away on a stretcher. I wasn't even really sore afterwards, which was a big first for me after a "long" run. I finished that event feeling as close to athletic as I've felt in years. But after the event, I totally lost momentum. When I got back home to Austin, I skipped a lot of my regular weekend jogging sessions, replacing them with sleeping in or eating migas. Or both.

Without a goal in front of me, my motivation tends to fade fast. Luckily, my sister Emily helped kick me in the butt and invited me to sign up for the Electric Run, a night-time 5K that took place at Austin's Travis County Expo Center. I was a tad leery about the Electric Run in the beginning because the entry fee was $55, and it wasn't easy to figure out which charity the event sponsored. I'm all about participating if the money is going to charity. The Electric Run's charity of choice turned out to be Back on My Feet, an organization devoted to helping the homeless use running to help transition into independent living. It's unclear what portion of the proceeds goes directly to the charity, but either way, it looks like a good cause.

The Electric Run's course includes several delightful, brightly-lit scenes to keep you motivated while you're jogging along in your fun costume and piles of glow sticks. It may seem random to participate in a 5K that involves so much costuming, but if you haven't been paying attention to the trends in 5K events, it's all about color right now. You've got The Color Run, which touts being "The Happiest 5K on the Planet." If your definition of happy is running while someone is shooting you with dyed corn starch, then I guess it really is the happiest 5K on the planet. The Color Run has a lot of competition, though. There's also Color Me Rad, the Color in Motion 5K, and the Run or Dye Fun Run. While I haven't done one of the daytime color-themed events because I'm not fond of sucking in dyed powder while I'm panting, I do like the idea of training for one of those color events. I'd ask my husband to hop in the car and follow me along my Saturday morning neighborhood course, passing me slowly as my daughter and her friends pelt me with home-made dyed corn starch. As long as they aimed below the neck, I think I could get into it.

For the Electric Run, my sister was responsible for making us cute because she's a modern-day Edith Head, and because I have zero talent when it comes to creating an electric outfit suitable for a 5K. Emily busted out the battery-pack light sets, glow sticks and bright make-up, and we were on our way. Two good friends joined us, and we met beforehand to apply hair color, eyelashes, and have a pre-race cocktail and some vegetarian tacos. [Caution: If you are running a 5K, don't have a pre-race cocktail and vegetarian taco. Trust me here.]

Traffic was terrible and parking about as bad, so we arrived at the event with minutes to spare before the race started, only to learn that the event organizers are brilliant, and start the event in heats that are staggered about every 15 minutes. Given that 10,000 people signed up for the Spring Electric Run (evidently it's so popular they do two a year), this was a great idea. 

Here we are before the race, looking particularly electric.

Before the race began, we observed the scene. I'd guess the average age of the runners for this event was about 22, so it was an energetic group for sure. A fired-up guy with a loudspeaker yelled motivational things at us in between electronic music breaks. As we got closer to the start line, we noticed the guy was cranked up on a crane a few stories above us, and he and his assistants were hurling glow sticks and t-shirts at the crowd below. Because I'm a mom, I did my best to remain cool-headed while I fretted that someone was going to lose an eye from an unfortunate glow stick injury. 

I talk frequently about a term I call "piggy pigginess" which has several definitions and uses, but one has to do with the state people get in when free things are being offered. As much as I like to think I'm immune to being tempted by freebies, sometimes I just get caught up in the rapture. When we approached the start line and the fired-up announcer started hurling freebies at us, I went a bit nuts as I saw him dangling a pair of neon pink legwarmers, I guess because neon pink legwarmers are vital when you're running in Austin, Texas in September when it's still 125 degrees. My apparent natural piggy-pigginess kicked into full gear, and right before we began to run, I screamed so passionately that I caught the attention of the freebie thrower, and quickly became the proud new owner of a brand new pair of neon pink legwarmers. My reaction to catching them indicated that it was all worth the $55 registration fee, and it gave me just the kick I needed to start jogging. The only problem was my sister and I had to take shifts carrying the legwarmers (because she's nice that way and I was whining), and now, I don't even know where they are. I feel a bit sad because I just realized they may be gone forever.

I won't lie; the lights at the Electric Run are mighty dazzling. The first scene felt like part Wizard of Oz, part Electric Parade at Disney World. Pretty trippy stuff, both literally and figuratively, because everyone was oohing and aahing and it was hard not to trip on people and sticks (the first part of the 5K has a bit of trail running). Unfortunately, by the time we ran past the first woodland scene, I was already feeling the effects of the pre-race cocktail and vegetarian taco, and I didn't have it in me to consistently jog at that point. My sister, a patient and kind sort, stuck with me while I complained in between random LED scenes.

And random it really was. The Austin Electric Run takes place at the Travis County Expo Center, which is also where our rodeo takes place, so at one point during the race you're running through a huge barn full of upside down lit-up umbrellas. It looks really cool, but as soon as you gasp with wonder, you get a good whiff of cow manure. It's pretty disgusting.

After a few more cool scenes and, in our case, a stretch that included a somewhat blasphemous electronic mix of some of Queen's greatest hits, you're at the finish line for the dance party. Here's what the website suggests you'll find at the end of the yellow-lit road:

Well, not quite. It was far less packed than their website pic above, but that was what they were going for for sure. Promotional temp employees slathered in Proactiv appeared out of nowhere and shoved free Rock Star Energy Drinks at us, while I yelled, "No, thanks! I'm afraid of drinks like that!" (I don't know why, but that response always gets blank stares from the young ones). 

There were lots of people dancing around waving glow sticks. We made a beeline for the bar to buy overpriced watery beer, and I felt elderly again as the guy on the mic urged everyone to throw their glow sticks in the air all at once. I watched, amused, as a teenage girl scurried around collecting used sweaty glow sticks off the ground, in a major piggy piggy glow stick moment. I couldn't help but think about what would happen when, twelve hours later, that poor piggy piggy girl would be sitting in a dark room in tears, buried in a pile of clear glow sticks, realizing for the first time that glow sticks have an expiration date.

Just as we were toasting our success and checking out the scene, I bent down to tie my shoe. As I stood up, I nearly took out the person standing behind me. That person was a toddler. She was standing there holding a glow stick and looking understandably overwhelmed. I'm guessing it was her first nighttime 5K/rave, so I looked around for a parental figure, and about ten feet behind us stood a woman behind a stroller, completely unaware I'd nearly knocked her kid down. As I was about to pick up the toddler and take her back to her mother, the toddler wandered back to the mother-ship stroller, glow stick in tow. I was pretty impressed she managed to make it back without falling, since the dance party floor was already covered in spilled beer. She was one savvy toddler.

Now, the Electric Run advertises that it's a family friendly event, stating on their website that, "We believe everyone, no matter their age, should be able to experience incredible lights and music in an environment that is healthy and happy." And I'm all about family friendly events, but when it's that loud, and glow sticks are flying around, perhaps you might consider hiring a babysitter? Because let's face it, when you're unsure if the pacifier in your stroller belongs to your toddler or to you, you've got a bit of a problem on your hands.

We stayed long enough to dance off our post race beer and pre-race vegetarian tacos, and long enough for me to get hit square in the head several times by a gigantic blow-up liquor bottle that was being tossed around in the crowd. Each time it landed on my head, my sister and I laughed a little harder. What were we thinking?

At the end of the day, it may be time for me to hang up my glow sticks and return to daytime events where the only colorful fun is the Gatorade at the water stops, but if you're wanting a to put a little light on the subject and you don't mind running over toddlers in glow stick tiaras, feel free to sign up for an Electric Run near you. Just be sure to share your stories with me!

Chicken Legs and a Giant 10K

In February of this year, I signed up to do The Giant Race 10K in San Francisco, which took place on August 4, giving me plenty of time to train. My coworkers in San Francisco wanted to do the event for a team-builder, which I thought was a great idea. We had three choices - a half marathon, 10K or 5K. My wimpy inner voice told me to go with the 5K, but since everybody else on my team seemed to be signing up for the half marathon, the 10K seemed like a reasonable and challenging option.

Since I walk close to three miles each weekday morning,  training for the 10K got pushed to the weekends. I didn't follow a formal training plan, didn't join a group, and decided to train alone. I probably should have done something more structured, but I knew what I needed to do. 

I needed to run.

Running is not natural for me, and for most of my life, I've hated it. It started in the second grade at Andy Woods Elementary School in Tyler, Texas. I had gangly arms and legs then, and at some point while running speed races on the playground at recess, someone noticed how ridiculous I looked when I ran. My long, skinny legs flailed around while the short boys watched and laughed. Soon enough, I had an nickname: Chicken Legs.

When it was time for kickball at recess, and the PE teacher made us pick teams (really, a very cruel practice if you're not athletic), I was usually second to the last next to whichever kid happened to be in a cast at the time. I got pretty good at avoiding running. I could kick the kickball up high and slow so it was easy to catch (Chicken Legs make for great kicking, evidently!). I'd get a stomach ache so I would be forced to sit out.  I got really good at Tug of War so that was my sport of choice on Field Day. (Okay, fine, I wasn't good at Tug of War, either, but at least it beat running).

In college, I took tennis as an elective and the coach thought I had potential. I had a pretty strong two-handed backhand, and one day after class, he pulled me to the side and said, 

"You could be a really good tennis player if you would run every now and then."

Evidently, if the ball came my way and was within my range of motion, I could return it without a problem. But if the ball required moving, I stayed put and watched it fly past.

The fear of being made fun of prevented me from enjoying so many things in life. Those silly bullies in elementary school are not to blame: I am. I gave full consent to allow people to make me feel inferior, despite the Eleanor Roosevelt quote my mother had hand-stamped on a card on my childhood refrigerator.

So I decided to sign up for the 10K, and vowed to run like no one was watching. And that's exactly what I did. I walked. I jogged. I wogged. Sometimes, I ran as fast as I could until my former chicken legs begged me to stop. But what I didn't do was give a rat's patootey what anyone thought.

This time, I didn't have chicken legs. Sure, I probably still look like that when I run, but my legs got stronger. And I got stronger along the way, stronger physically, but also stronger mentally. I remember once reading that Oprah said some mornings when she ran, her legs felt like steel pipes. And some mornings, my former chicken legs were steel pipes. On those days, I closed my eyes and convinced myself that my legs were as light as air. And I kept going, even if I needed to walk some along the way.

A few weeks before the race, I got jitters. I talked to a colleague who runs to ask for advice.

"Every water stop, get some water. Walk while you drink, then keep on running."

I took note of this, and a few weeks later, the same colleague sent this amazing Oatmeal piece on running to several coworkers, referring to the recipients as "runners". The mere fact that I was included on that email wiped away so much of my former Chicken Legs mentality. Was I really a runner? It was certainly beginning to feel that way.

When August 4 came around, I was ready. I had a killer playlist that was timed perfectly -- a great mix of dirty rap, 80's pop, and some random inspirational songs from different periods in my life. (And a little smooth jazz. Fine.)

I ate a few almonds and a little cheese, drank water and a Starbucks chai, and got in line with my pace group. The second grader in me wondered if the people who run a ten minute mile would turn around and laugh at me for being in the slow group, but I silenced that voice by realizing that I was doing a damned 10K!

The Giant Race is held along the Embarcadero in San Francisco, a nice flat course that takes you out 3 miles. The 10K runners hit 3 miles, then get routed back in the opposite direction while the half marathoners run an actual course. No offense to the race coordinators, but the race was terribly marked. If not for my MapMyRun app I couldn't have made it in the pace I ran, because I had no idea how far I'd gone or how much I had left, and for me, it's definitely a mental game. 

But we did have water stops. Your guess is as good as mine if those water stops were on actual mile markers, but each time, I nearly barreled over a teen-aged volunteer, grabbing for water like it was my last sip, took a little walk break, thanked my coworker out loud for his great advice (even though he lives in North Carolina), and kept on going.

When I got to the three mile turn-around, I got a little jolt and felt like I had it made. Then a little while later, I started to wonder why the hell I signed up. I began complaining mentally. I was still concerned about the missing mile markers, when a fun man in neon pink knee-highs ran up beside me, and I yelled out loud dramatically,

"Does anyone know where we are?"

"We're in San Francisco, on the Embarcadero," a woman with a literal mind answered, as if random people just run 10Ks without knowing where they are.

"She means where are we mile-wise," said the guy in neon kneesocks, "We're at 4 miles. Come on mama, you've got this."

Neon Kneesocks Man stayed with me for a while, giving me a nice pep talk along the way, and then passed me in a flash of bright pink. I loved that man. Before I knew it, AT&T Park was in sight, and I was nearing the finish. 

Before I went to San Francisco, I was cleaning out emails and stumbled on to an email my mother sent me several days before my 40th birthday last October -- a TED Talk by Amy Cuddy on body language. If you haven't seen this, it's pretty inspirational.

For some reason, my mom prefaced the video by stating that the video was worth watching, but was 20 minutes, so that alone caused me to delay watching it for nearly a year. What a sad commentary on our modern-day attention span!

I finally watched it, several weeks before the Giant Race, and it was so good, I watched it several times. I love the idea of striking a power pose and making yourself powerful. I love the concept of "faking it until you become it." I took that thought process with me when I ran.

The race ends inside Giants Stadium, directly on the field. It's pretty exciting, even after running 6.2 miles that early in the morning.  I finished the race, red-faced and exhilarated, looking up in the stands for my husband and daughter, and as I crossed the finish line, I heard my husband's signature whistle. 

And when I turned around, I left my chicken legs behind me for good, because now, I'm powerful. I faked it until I became it, and I must admit, it feels pretty good.

Yo, I'm Training Here

It's been a while!

I haven't abandoned you completely, but it has been busy these past few weeks. I've been training a bit for a team-builder my coworkers and I are doing August 4 in San Francisco. We're running The Giants Race to benefit Project Open Hand, a really cool organization that delivers meals to seniors and the critically ill. We got to choose between doing a 5K, 10K or half marathon. I knew better than to bite off a half marathon at this phase in my running journey, but I figured a 10K would be at least somewhat doable.

I've told you before I'm no Sporty Spice. Just because I walk to work nearly every day does not make me athletic. When I jog, it's a slow, hilarious situation, but I'm getting to an age where I don't really care what people think about me as I crawl by.

Because I signed up for this 10K at the first of the year, I've had ample time to prepare. And, in a sense, I have prepared quite a bit. Since I signed up for Map My Walk in April, I've logged 150 workouts. For me, this is sort of a miracle. When I got the email this week from Map My Walk congratulating me for this, I felt really proud. And the daily walks really add up. No matter if you walk, "wog," or jog the whole session, you will start feeling really great, and getting healthier, and that's awesome.

With just two weeks to go, I'm trying to kick it up a notch while preventing injury or heart failure. This morning, I woke with a goal of "running" at least three miles, and walking one more mile for a total of four. I'm in Texas, where it's about 250 degrees by 9am, so I left the house as early as possible and set off on my run, logging on to my two favorite tracking apps, Charity Miles and Map My Walk.

If it weren't for music, I would never make a mile, much less several of them. When I first started jogging years ago, my goal was to jog through three songs without stopping, for me, about enough time to get one mile under my belt. These days, I create playlists based on my distance goals.

My iPhone contains an extremely random selection of music that would make some of the young kids proud, and some of the stuff I own would make most everybody cringe. That's the smooth jazz portion. I'm not talking Kenny G or Yanni (or, as my husband calls him, Yanti). But I do fancy a little George Benson and Chuck Mangione. It's deliciously relaxing to me. Feel free to judge; everybody I know does. I'm comfortable with my smooth jazziness.

When I "run," I often listen to some really dirty rap. Sometimes I rap along, because I'm cool like that, and it helps keep my mind off of the fact that I'm pretty miserable, especially when it's hot out. Some of the dirty rap songs I own are the radio versions, mainly so my kids can rap along in the car. Yeah, we're that white family that raps together in the car, but we keep it G-rated. I like to think that a large portion of Jay-Z's fortune is based on the lame white families who buy the radio versions of his songs, so I'm sure he doesn't mind that they have to record two versions.

I remember when I was in about second grade, The Charlie Daniels Band's "Devil Went Down to Georgia" came out, and I wanted desperately to sing the entire song, especially the part that included the phrase "son of a bitch." So I approached my father and requested permission. Dad, an Army veteran and son of two potty mouths (God rest their souls, both of my grandparents were big-time cussers) - thought it over briefly and gave me the green light. I think he was kind of proud of me for asking.

I was on top of the world. I probably played that song over a thousand times, standing tall on a bench, acting out the devil versus the hillbilly story line, shouting, "I done told you once, you son of a bitch, I'm the best that's ever been!"

Perhaps this big life event gave me the confidence I have now to say what's on my mind. Hmm.

So while I'll water down some of the stuff I let my kids sing along to, for my runs, I buy the real deal. It raises my street cred a little. That said, I don't want to be caught saying the "N" word, and it's just all over these rap songs, kids. I grew up in East Texas, and that word --- one of the most distasteful, ugly words of all time - was thrown around quite a bit. Lucky for me, we never used that word in the home and found it abhorrent, but in an almost fully segregated town, the ugliness of Southern racism was part of my upbringing. That word showed up in jokes, in the homes of friends' houses, and overheard in dinner conversations. My mom had absolutely no problem confronting people who used that word and making them feel like complete idiots for doing so.

Dirty rap is a difficult thing to deal with if you want to buy it, listen to it ( in my opinion a lot of it is really good. I think Kanye West and Jay-Z are geniuses), and support it with out feeling a little racially squeamish. What do you do when it comes time to sing along?  I'm guessing Paula Deen didn't have to answer the question, "But what about when you listened to dirty rap? What did you do then?" I'm also guessing Paula Deen isn't a huge rap fan, but who knows. Personally, I think she's just a sad bumpkin who admitted to using racist language -which isn't acceptable - but she also makes pies with a pound of butter, so she's not exactly on a mission to save lives or better the world.

So today, I was singing along to my mix of classic 70s rock and dirty rap, and I landed on a song with a lot of "N" words. And suddenly, I was struck with a flash of genius.

I would substitute the N word with "nipple!"

Let me tell you, friends, when you run past someone and are huffing and puffing and saying, "MJ" gone, our nipple dead," that is a really fantastic thing.

This new-found rapping system, along with a mid-run water break, and I was wildly motivated today. I knocked out three miles without much drama. By the time I finished four miles, I was almost home, and I stopped, took a left turn in the opposite direction of home, and kept on. I passed a young couple with a stroller, right around the time I was halfway through Jay-Z's explicit version of "Empire State of Mind." I'm super social, so I always say good morning to the people I lumber past, but this morning, about the time they passed me, I was in the middle of this:

"Nipple I be spiked up, I can tip a referee. Tell by my attitude I'm most definitely from..."

Given that the baby in the stroller was about six months old, I found that nipple reference pretty timely. Breastfeeding moms talk about nipples with such regularity I doubt the mom even noticed, and lucky for the dad, he had on headphones.

And with a little more smooth jazz, I was jogging up to my house, five miles behind me. This is the farthest I've gone since I started training in April. I did a dirty rap victory dance, right in front of my house. It was good times.

For those of you who think you can't walk, wog, jog or run, you totally can. I am proof of this. I am often lazy, overweight (but slowly shrinking), and much more motivated to sit on my butt than exercise. But it gets addictive, and it makes you feel great.

So slap on some headphones, download some dirty rap (or whatever music gets you going), and hit the streets!

Running on Angry

I have a friend who writes a running blog called Running on Heavy. I like her take on fitness. She describes herself as a "big girl," and encourages others who aren't Skinny Minnies to get out there and exercise and not be intimidated. It's good stuff. In addition to enjoying her posts, I also love the title. So today, I'm going to plagiarize a bit, and tell you about how this morning, I went running on angry.

My husband Tim and I are very good at fighting. We're a very hot-and-cold couple; we're either passionately lovey-dovey or fighting with equal passion. And while the fighting times can be stressful, I always know that we'll figure out how to get through it. I know this because we always do, but also because my husband was married before, and when we got married, he said,

"Divorce is not an option. Homicide is, but divorce is not."

And he laughed his big huge laugh, which is a good thing. I don't want you thinking my husband has homicidal tendencies. He simply didn't want to go through the pain of divorce ever again. Makes sense.

Last night, we got into a pretty good fight, but I was exhausted from a crazy week at work and decided I didn't want to give it 100%, so I went to bed angry. I like to resolve things, and truly believe going to bed angry is a bad thing, but last night it wasn't in the cards to get to a cozy resolution. As a result, I woke up angry. What a terrible way to wake up! I rolled around in bed, mad as a wet hen, and then laughed at myself for thinking that for the first time in my life, I related to John Boehner and Rush Limbaugh. Man, I was angry! Grr!

And this morning, all of that anger motivated the hell out of me. The first thing I did was make a beeline for my new hot pink sports bra. (Did I mention that it's a size smaller than my other ones? And it fits?!) Unable to find it in my workout bag, I stormed topless into the living room, where my husband sat cheerfully on the couch. I should mention that Tim cannot get over a fight quickly. While I'm completely content to fight it out, get super ugly, and then make up directly afterwards, Tim doesn't work this way. While I need to get to a happy place, Tim needs space and time. And for Tim, his definition of time and space has something to do with sleeping. Give that man a few REM cycles, and he wakes up as cheerful as a Southern Baptist Sunday School teacher. It's as if nothing ever happened.

As I entered the living room, topless and angry, Tim bellowed, "Good morning!" This was followed by a wolf whistle. See? It's as if nothing ever happened!

Unaffected by his friendliness and his appreciation for my half-dressed state, I found my sports bra in the pile of clothes waiting to be folded on the dining room table (yeah, we're that kind of family), and waved casually in Tim's direction, as if he were no more than a simple stranger sitting in our living room. I poured some water for the road and went and got dressed to run. Still angry. While dressing, I considered that I could make up with Tim. It wouldn't be hard to do, especially after that wolf whistle. But I wanted to see if this anger would help fuel my morning run. It was already a steamy 80 degrees outside, and I'd slept an hour later than I'd hoped. I needed motivation.

I headed to the front door, earphones already in, sunscreen applied, rocking my new running shorts. I have to document this so my sister can benefit from ten straight minutes of hysterical laughter. I do NOT do shorts. I haven't really worn shorts much at all since 8th grade. They look terrible on me. But lately, I'm a bit of a sporty individual, and at 7:00 on a Saturday morning in a college town, not many people were up to see me anyway.

"I'll be back in a while," I said casually to that common stranger on our couch.

"Enjoy your run!" the man said, in a familiar cheerful Sunday School teacher sing-song voice as I slammed the door.

Normally, my weekend runs are the same for the most part. I either run/walk around the golf course near my house, which is a little over a mile, and I do as many loops as I can before pooping out. It's not exactly consistent jogging; I get lazy and walk a lot. Or I do some variation of that route near my home, figuring if I need to pass out, it should be close to my house so my family can come save me. But this morning, I went on a mission. Fueled by anger and a sudden stubborn streak, I logged on to my two walking/running apps, and said out loud to nobody but myself,

"I'm going to run to the Capitol."

For some, like the mother of one of my daughter's friends who seriously runs like 4,000 miles a week, swims about half that distance, and bikes around 8,000 miles a week, this would be no big thing at all. But I'm not an athlete. I'm just trying to get healthy here. However, it should be noted that the course from my house to the capitol is, in my opinion, quite hilly. The hill by the UT stadium nearly kills me, and that's just when I'm walking. I've never jogged up it before. Because I walk this route nearly every day, I know where the mile markers are. Mile one ends at the base of that killer hill. I got that far without collapsing, and thought about what was coming next. I looked up at the top of the hill, looked down at my legs, and then I thought about Meredith.

Meredith was recently featured on an episode of Extreme Weight Loss. If you haven't seen it, it's Extreme Home Makeover for big bodies. And come on, everybody loves a transformation story, especially if it's extreme. Would you spend an hour of your life watching the story of an average Joe who dropped five pounds? Never! It has to be massive and extreme weight loss to get our attention. As a result, Exteme Weight Loss is completely addictive.

Meredith's story is perfect for this format. She's beautiful (at all sizes in my opinion). Blonde with curly hair and a radiant smile, we love Meredith because she's overweight, but we can see how pretty she'll be once she's thin. I really hate that, but it's how we are. We want that extreme change. And also, we want to see someone get healthy. I have to remind myself that those weight loss shows are also about health, and not just looks.

Of course Meredith was adopted as a baby, and spent her life feeling neglected by her birth mother. Because she was overweight, she never felt fully accepted or part of her adoptive family. Watching, I got annoyed with her for being kind of a sad sack about the whole deal, as her adoptive family seems great, but it makes the story juicer.

I was totally sucked in. What else would we learn about Meredith? How about this: as a kid, Meredith wanted to be on Baywatch. As a child, Meredith's dream was to "run around in a bikini as a lifeguard on the beach." You can't act like you don't love a kid who's biggest dream is to be a mini Pamela Anderson.

The Baywatch dream was enough to keep me watching, but it got even better. Of course Meredith struggled with yo-yo dieting. Of extreme proportions. Meredith got up to nearly 400 pounds at one point, and lost down to the 200s. When she did, she got a tattoo on her belly that reads this:

"Believe it. Be it. 155."

155 is Meredith's goal weight. There are several scenes where she proudly displays her belly tattoo for the entire viewing audience to see. The bravery!

I will not give away all of the awesome details, but I do suggest you watch the episode. It's truly inspirational and super extreme. But this morning, at the base of the hill, I thought about Meredith's journey. I thought about the distances she was able to run, and how hard she worked, and that crazy belly tattoo. And I kept going. And going.

About two tenths of a mile away from the capitol, I nearly quit. There's a hill there that's nice and deceptive, and it was kicking my ass. But I kept going. I jogged through my anger. I jogged for Meredith. I jogged thinking about Charity Miles, and how all of the causes they support are things so difficult to face- getting clean drinking water, fighting cancer, getting an education -- and I powered through that last little segment.

And I made it.

I know two miles is not a big huge deal. I've actually jogged two miles several times this summer while training for this daunting 10K I'm doing in August. But today's route was such a big personal win. I said I was going to jog to the capitol, and I did it. I did some pretty ridiculous Rocky-esque celebrating. I snapped a quick picture of the capitol, turned around, and headed home. I won't lie; I thought briefly about taking a bus back home, but after I caught my breath, I started jogging again, and did another mile before I decided that walking the rest of the way home was completely okay.

By the time I got home, I was no longer angry with Tim. What were we even fighting about? When I came inside, and my terrific husband was standing in the living room, folding clothes on our dining room table, he looked a little amazed.

"How far did you go?" he asked.

"Four and a quarter miles," I said, proudly. "I ran to the capitol."

I can't say that being angry is the only reason I was able to complete my journey today -- I have been working at getting in better shape since the first of the year --  but it did get me going. So from now until I face the daunting 10K coming up in August, I may have to pick a few more fights with Tim. Perhaps if I keep up the angry running, I can run across the beach in a bikini sometime in the future and bust out my best Baywatch move. Surely Tim won't mind that.

Walking Daniel

When I started this blog, the goal was simple: help motivate others to walk for transportation. I also hoped that as interest in the topic grew, I could devote some of my posts to helping others while still focusing on the walking topic. I would get sponsors. I would connect with a really cool organization called Charity Miles, and see how we could work together (I've started using their app and I love it. More on this later). I would write about Walk for the Water, an organization that raises awareness and funds for people in developing countries who walk an average of 3.7 miles one way to get clean water. 

There I go with my big dreams again. Between my stepdaughter's upcoming graduation, the end of the school year, work travel, deadlines and more, it's been nearly a month since I took time to sit and write about anything, much less take time to add a philanthropic touch to my otherwise fluffy blog about walking to work.

So the universe decided to conk me on the head yesterday, as it often does when I need a reminder of what is truly important. I was home, folding laundry, watching back-to-back episodes of House Hunters International on HGTV, when my husband Tim came in from running errands, soaked in sweat (it's suddenly about 117 degrees in Austin), and bounded into the kitchen to pour water, eyes shining. It's a look I know well.

Tim was in helping mode.

For those of you who don't know Tim, he lives in helping mode. He's a modern day Good Samaritan. He is happiest when he is helping someone in need. It's not unusual at all for Tim to be awake before the garbage truck arrives, putting frozen Gatorade on top of the trash can for the garbage men to enjoy as they're doing work that 99% of us would never consider doing. 

In the past week alone, Tim dropped everything to help my parents move, fixed a broken outdoor light at my parent's new house, handled massive amounts of heavy lifting, and helped me escape jail time by negotiating a forgotten speeding ticket in a small Texas town. And this was all done by Tuesday! From there, he helped facilitate the sale of a used car owned by our dear friend from Brazil to a man from India. I didn't witness any of this face to face, but just overhearing the phone conversations was like being a fly on the wall to some pretty complicated United Nations negotiations. There was a lot of loud, slow talking. It was hilarious, but it was Tim in full on helping mode.

And just yesterday morning, I found Tim outside with the man from India in a scene I know too well: Hood up, public radio blaring, crap laying around every which direction, and Tim patiently teaching the driver how to change oil, or put on brake pads, or fix a flywheel. This is how Tim rolls. And I love it.

After helping our new friend from India, Tim went to run errands and was on his way back home when he discovered a young woman with a flat tire a few blocks from our house. He came home for tools, bounded into the kitchen to fetch cold water, and took off. This is a pretty typical Saturday at the Arndt house.

Yesterday, Tim's need to help trickled down to the next generation. While Tim was off changing the flat, my stepson Matthew came home from spending the morning with his girlfriend. As they pulled up to our house, Matthew noticed a man, a woman and a young child standing beside a stroller. The tire on the back of the stroller was broken, and the family stood there in what appeared to be a significant pickle. The man asked Matthew if he spoke Spanish, and Matthew answered yes, and the next thing you know, Matthew was launched into helping mode.

By this time of day, it was seriously pushing 100 degrees outside. Matthew came inside, bounded into the kitchen to fetch water for the family, and immediately asked for Tim, knowing this kind of scene was right up Tim's alley. 

With Tim gone, I felt a little like a triage nurse, so I stepped in to offer help. Except my contribution is typically to interview the people and learn about them while Tim or Matthew do the manly work. I know, it's sexist, but I'm not the handiest lady in the world.

Matthew went to the garage to locate tires to try to fix the stroller (a discussion on the things we have in our garage is a different topic altogether), and I went outside to meet the family. I'm not exactly certain of the relationship between the man and the woman. The woman may be the wife, or she may be the grandmother; it was hard to tell. They were sweaty and appeared tired, yet they were all smiles.

The little boy is named Daniel, and the father introduced him in both the Spanish and English pronunciation. Daniel has a thick head of beautiful dark hair and huge brown eyes, and he hid behind the mother/grandmother's legs, peering out and smiling shyly. I fell in love immediately.

Through broken English and my limited Spanish, which is comprised of a lot of dramatic adjectives -- "Hot! Dangerous! Cold! Beautiful!"  -- I was able to get a basic lowdown of what this family does to get around. 

For starters, they don't own a car. Now, I write about walking for transportation, right? I write about how great it was for me to sell my car so I can walk to my office in the morning.  But I don't have a 3 year-old boy. When I take the bus after work, it's because I can't find a Car2Go nearby, or my Tim is busy and can't pick me up. I have never been in a situation where I had to walk several miles for an errand in 100-degree heat, much less do it with a child in tow.

This family lives in East Austin. They use the stroller to cart Daniel around when his legs tire from walking. The importance of that stroller on their day-to-day lives is significant.  While Matthew tinkered around with the tire, this sweet family drank ice water, expressed gratitude over and over, and the little boy entertained himself by rolling the spare tire around on the street.

There is more to this story than I understand at this point. We are not entirely sure that this family has a place to live. Daniel's father is doing what he can to help his family, and that despite his situation, he clings to a faith where he states that he is "one hundred percent" certain that God exists. I was so moved by this sweet family. They are doing the best that they can in what is likely a somewhat desperate situation. 

This family walks for transportation because they have no other choice. And they do it with as much grace as they can. In no point in our interaction did this family ask us for a handout. They simply broke down on the side of the road - just like the affluent girl in the new Ford that my husband helped - and we happened to be there to offer up a little help.

While Matthew was working on the stroller that ended up being irreparable, Tim came home and suggested that I post a message on Facebook to see if we could get a used stroller from our friends in Austin. In less than 24 hours, help arrived in the form of a jogging stroller, gently used and perfect for this situation. What's really cool about this story is that when I posted the message, several people shared my post, and the family who offered up their stroller is currently living in Brazil (they spend their summers there), so help arrived from thousands of miles away. They happen to have a spare stroller at their house in Austin, so today's we'll coordinate picking up it so Daniel has some new wheels. I'm so proud to have so many friends with huge hearts! 

Today, I'm more aware of how wealthy most of us are, and while life brings all of us certain setbacks, there are always others who can benefit from our help. I can't help but think that when I walk to work next week, I will do it with a raised level of awareness that there are many who walk because they have no other choice. 

It's no wonder that when he's helping, Tim looks his happiest. He often says that when he helps, he's doing it selfishly, because doing something for others makes him feel good. If that's the case, I'm happy I married a selfish man, and that he's teaching his children that the best gift you can give yourself is to help someone in need.

Traffic, schmaffic

I got really excited recently because I got to work and found my friend and coworker sitting at his desk, casually dressed, a bit sweaty, and slightly red-faced. Could it be?

"I walked to work today!" he said happily. "It was great!"

My friend was a walker long before I took up the habit, but since we moved to our downtown office, he'd let his walking slide a bit. But now, because of my incessant ramblings about how great I feel walking, he's walking again.  Four days now, he has chosen to pop in his headphones, put on his favorite podcast, and hoof it nearly 4 miles to the office. I've always wanted to be a trendsetter!

This also means at least two of us who work downtown are helping ease our terrible traffic issues. Given that everybody and their dog and their third cousin has moved to Austin, and those who haven't seem to be packed and ready to move here any day now, it's not a big surprise that Austin just landed on a list of the top ten cities with the worst traffic in the United States. The fact Austin landed at #4? Pretty miserable news.

Last week, one of the administrators at my daughter's school looked at me with curiosity and asked, "Did I see you walking by the tennis courts at UT the other day? And were you wearing a backpack?"

I'd like to suggest that she was somewhat shocked to see me wearing a backpack because I'm such a delightful fashionista, but I think she was just shocked to see me walking.

"Yep," I said, "I started walking to work in January, and some days, I walk about a mile towards home and my husband comes and picks me up. It's pretty hilarious and out there, but it's changing my life!"

After she popped her eyes back into her head, she admitted that she and her husband were living fairly close to the school for a while, and they always promised to ride bikes to work, but that it never happened. When she admitted this, she seemed ashamed of herself, so I reminded her that it's never too late, and even if she could just do it every now and then, it might change the way she feels.

Here's the thing. Whether you live in Austin or somewhere less congested, it can't hurt to consider switching things up a bit. I'll bet that many of you have thought about walking to work, or riding your bike, or even carpooling. I would like to challenge you to try getting to work just once a week by an alternative method that saves gas, reduces your stress, and reminds you that by leaving your car behind - even on an occasional basis - you can make a big difference in your quality of life.

Let's consider Austin runner and author Russell Secker. I met Russell years ago when we worked at Hoover's. After I'd been there a while, I started noticing Russell running in the mornings as I was driving to work. I'd be driving the slight 2-mile drive to the office, usually in a hurry, multitasking by putting on mascara while listening to NPR, and I would see Russell running along, looking as peaceful as a gazelle. 

But Russell wasn't just jogging a few miles to the office; he was running around 14 miles. One way! Then I learned that 14 miles was nothing for Russell. He's run across several European countries, multiple times. Read about him here in a recent Austin Fit Magazine article. He's a pretty amazing guy.

For most of us, that kind of running is extreme beyond comprehension. But there's one thing I always noticed about Russell. He was happy. He was relaxed.  As an EVP who undoubtedly encountered pressure in his job, he never appeared stressed. I believe firmly that Russell's pleasant demeanor and professional success are due in large part to his choice to stay fit.

That dedication to fitness is becoming more and more appealing to me. Don't get me wrong, I'm barely able to jog two miles without collapsing in a dramatic heap on the ground. But a few months ago, I couldn't jog half a mile. Baby steps!

And by taking baby steps every day, I am starting to realize how my little 3-mile hikes to work are doing great things for my health. A May 12 article from Time magazine discusses the impact of commuting on a person's heart health and waistline. According to the study of Texas-based commuters, the longer your commute, the more likely you are to be overweight, have heart disease, and other health issues.

I am overweight, so please don't think I am preaching here. I want you to know I'm overweight so you can know that you absolutely don't have to be a skinny Minnie or an Abercrombe & Fitch customer to walk a few miles a day. Weight loss was not the primary factor I chose to start walking, but I am certainly not complaining about that benefit. Since I began walking consistently in January, the scale is moving in the right direction. I'm down one size (nearly two). Every day that I walk to work, I arrive in a better mental state than when I ride in a car (some days, my husband drives me to work). I sleep better. I think I'm nicer, too, but don't go confirming that with my husband just yet.

When I see people I haven't seen in a while, they don't notice my weight loss right away. Some people do, but mainly, people say, "Wow! What have you been doing lately? You look great!"

I'm super vain, so I love these comments. They make me want to keep walking, because the results are so powerfully positive. I will take these compliments any day, and if gross old men start cat calling me on my walk to work, I will eat that up as well. I'm just that way.

You can do this, too. I promise. It's doable, as long as you can figure out a way to make it work. Ask your spouse to support you in biking to work once a week, and offer to support them in doing the same. Work out a one-way carpool and walk home. Have someone else pick up your kids on Tuesdays, and return the favor for them on Thursdays so you can both walk. And many of you have told me that you live too far to walk. If biking is an option, get a bike! Just please wear a helmet and be safe. Or, take the bus and get off 3 miles away from your desk. It may seem inconvenient, but just consider the benefits!

Would you rather spend 45 minutes listening to music or talking to your Aunt Wanda and moving your body than sitting in bumper-to- bumper traffic? I thought so. And let me tell you this: the first time you beat a car to the next traffic light because you're so much faster on foot than they are sitting in the parking lot we call Austin, I am certain that you will give yourself a mental high five, because it happens to me all the time. 

Feel free to post comments if you're willing to give it a try!

Getting Committed

Walking regularly is turning me into something of a walking evangelist, which, if you know me at all, is really hilarious. If you end up near me at a party, in line at the grocery -- it really doesn't matter -- I will force you to engage in conversation and manage to weave in a monologue about how I have been walking to work. I'll tell you about how great I feel. I'll tell you that since January, I have logged over 150 miles. And unless you are all lying to me, you will seem a little interested, and a little bit tickled. Because it's funny! I get it!

A little background. When I was a little girl, my mom used to have to beg me to go outside. I wasn't athletic, couldn't do a cartwheel (still can't), and refused to ride a bike (long story). I was much more interested in reading, talking to the adults, or listening to records. (We had records. I am old.) Mom said that she would tell me to go outside, and I'd stand at the back door, peering in, waiting to be let in like a sad puppy.

Growing up, I became more active, but it was always something social -- dance classes, jogging with friends, lots of aerobics classes. I was even on a television commercial for a gym in my hometown. I'd give anything to have that footage, because I was busting out some tell-tale 80's aerobics moves while my huge 80's hair stayed perfectly in place. 

As an adult, the majority of my workouts have happened at the gym. And I will not pretend for a minute this has been a regular thing.  I typically went out of guilt or boredom, or to get away from my family for an hour. But for some reason, I felt like logging time at the gym meant that I was doing something that really counted. Walking outside? It didn't seem like enough. It didn't feel like exercise. 

But walking is exercise, especially if you commit to it. It understand I'm not running marathons here, but for a lot of us, walking is a great option. For me, I had to figure out how to get committed to doing it. I made it about having to get to work, and deciding that walking there would change my day. And there is something about getting about halfway there and realizing that I can't stop that keeps me going, and keeps me interested. On a treadmill, I always found a reason to stop. Every day I walk, that day is better than if I decided to skip walking. It's crazy how that works.

Until I started walking this year, I never looked forward to exercising. But now that I'm doing it with a purpose (getting somewhere), I truly look forward to it. Do you ever get the Sunday blues? I do, but now that I'm walking, I actually look forward to Monday mornings. That's big.

My stepfather James is in his 80's, and he walks every single morning. It began years ago for health reasons, and instead of whining and moaning about his health, James quietly began walking each day. He's not going crazy long distances, but he gets up and does it, and he is extremely committed to his walks. As a result, James is thinner, healthier, and because he's an artist, every day he finds something interesting to take home and sketch. 

Getting committed to walking for transportation helped me decide to do something crazy. I sold my car! At first, the idea scared me to death, but it was an extremely liberating choice, and it made sense for my family, so the choice was easy. Now, I'm not going off the deep end. I'm still shaving my legs and haven't signed up to live in our friendly neighborhood ashram. We still have a car that we use, and I'm sorry to admit, it's an SUV. And we use it every day. But for now, I am proud to be carless in Austin.

Sometimes I forget that I don't have a car, like today, when it was time to leave work, and I realized my husband and daughter were at a school function. So I walked home. And then I got home and after logging nearly six miles today, got very interested in having dinner out. But since I was alone without a car, I made some soup and stayed home, and it was great. I'm telling you, it's a liberating thing!

I realize that everyone can't do this, and that this choice isn't practical for many families. But what if you chose to walk once a week? Twice? That's how I started, and now I'm a changed girl. I am so much happier, and I want you to feel the same.

Committing to walking has given me so many gifts. Reduced expenses, reduced stress, and I'm losing weight. All of that is worth so much more than a silly old car. So I kissed it goodbye, and I'm not looking back.

The Journey Home

People remain supportive but perplexed about this walking thing. One of the recent frequently-asked questions is, "If you walk to work, how do you get home?"

I'd like to tell you that I walk home every day in addition to walking to work, but I'm not a hero here. Although some people make me feel that way. When I told our family doctor about my walking goals, he puffed up with pride.

"That's fantastic!" he said. "You're motivating me! I really should go walking on my break today."

My doctor is awesome. For one, he's overweight. You know the expression, "Never trust a skinny chef?" By that logic, the expression should be, "Never trust a chubby doctor," right? But he struggles just like the rest of us. And he's a great doctor. He listens, is compassionate, and doesn't dole out pills like a lot of other doctors who are slaves to the pharmaceutical companies. And why would I judge him? Overweight people are everywhere. Take Governor Chris Christie. So what if he's overweight? He's making plenty of decisions in between burgers and Girl Scout cookies. Let's give overweight people a break, already.

Yet despite his enthusiasm, my doctor suggested that to increase weight loss, I should increase my mileage. At first, I was a little miffed that three miles a day wasn't good enough given that before this, I casually dated a treadmill about 4 times a month. But my doctor seems to think that four miles a day is a magic number. His suggestion was that I walk to work, have a healthy snack in the late afternoon, then walk halfway home. Some days I do get an extra mile in, and my supportive husband comes to get me. But that's not always an option, and some days, I'm just plain lazy at the end of a long day at work.

This leads me to need alternative transportation methods to get me home. Some days, I take Austin's Capital Metro Bus. There are some positive aspects of this choice for sure. For starters, bus fare is extremely inexpensive (for me, $.50 one-way). Not having to focus on driving is nice, because you can listen to music or read, or just gaze out the window while you're carted home. The bus is also generally on time, and if you look at it like I do in my play-pretend mind where I'm famous, it's like having your own personal driver. The problem is that you share that driver with an extremely random group of people, and you're all in the same limo. (My boss was riding the bus for a while, and always called it the Green Limo, which gave the city bus a glamorous association.) Most days, my route is full of professionals and students, and the ride home is quiet and cozy.

My problem is that the past few times I've been on the city bus, I've encountered some unsavory characters. Take the guy who hopped on the bus a few weeks ago and immediately began yelling at the driver for not being patient with the fistful of nickels he was shoving into the coin slot at a turtle's pace. People began rolling their eyes, irritated, and I was feeling about the same when I noticed his hat advertised that he was a Vietnam vet. Given how we treat our vets, I instantly felt a soft spot for him, even though he was yelling and pretty belligerent. But when he started dropping f-bombs and tripped over an old woman's foot and gave her expletive-ridden instructions on what to do with herself, my soft spot turned hard. I thought about saying something, except I was afraid of him, so I spent the rest of the bus ride hoping he wasn't packing heat. It's Texas, after all.

Or, about a month ago, I ended up across from a morbidly obese guy who, when I sat down, immediately flashed a smile that revealed one single front tooth. He was proud of that solitary tooth! Upon further inspection I noticed that he was wearing threadbare pale blue sweatpants that were about four sizes too small. When he sat down, he spread his legs so far I wondered if he was a college cheerleader in his younger years (simply because those are the only guys I know who can do Chinese splits, or who would admit to doing them). I shouldn't have looked, but it was obvious that this poor guy didn't bother to put on underwear. Cringing, I focused on my phone, checking emails and doing my best to ignore the nasty show in front of me. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, he reached into his pocket and fetched a tube of toothpaste, and proceeded to finger brush his single tooth while I watched on in horror. The only redeeming quality about this entire scene was that the guy was practicing some dental hygiene on his only remaining tooth. 

The negative bus experiences left me yearning for something a little more civilized. Car2Go to the rescue! Car2Go is one of my favorite methods of transportation home because it offers a private car, and it's a great business idea. As long as you don't mind driving a car that's basically a moped with doors, it will definitely get you from A to B. It's a simple concept. You join the program, which is free, and pay as you rent. To get a car, you go online, see what cars are free in your area, and either reserve it online or just walk over and grab it. It's inexpensive as well at just $.38/minute. Another bonus is if you want to go downtown and have some adult beverages, Car2Go can get you there, and a cab can get you home. That's a very responsible approach to happy hours. My only minor complaint with Car2Go is that sometimes, I spot a car and want to take it, and it's already booked. Or, because I drive like a granny (as one should in a motorized tin can), sometimes going 3 miles in traffic costs me $8, and while for many city dwellers, that's no big thing, it ends up costing more than I'd spend on gas if I drove. I also find that the per-minute rate encourages me to speed, or take other options during peak rush hour.

Several people have asked me why I don't ride a bike. I won't go into the details, but I didn't learn how to ride a bike until I was 26 years old. Thanks to my awesome stepson Matthew, who bought me a bike and challenged me to learn to ride it, I don't have to spend my entire life missing out on what is a very fun experience. But I'm not a confident bike-rider. If I hopped on a bike and attempted to ride through a congested 3-mile drive home, I'd be dead in a matter of days. 

The other day, I told my story to my new eye doctor, who offices downtown near my office at Stars in Your Eyes Optometry and Optical. (On a side note, it's a great business! They're efficient, offer great customer service, and a huge selection of stylish frames. I recommend it highly!) The doctor didn't ask all of the typical nay-saying questions I hear when I first tell people I've begun walking. Rather, he smiled and told me that he bikes about the same distance every day. He got me.

So if you read this blog and think I'm a complete nutcase, that's totally fine. On the other hand, if you read it and are frustrated that you work too far from work to walk each day, what about biking? Because you could totally bike one-way, lock your bike, and bus it home. And who knows? You might be like a friend of a friend of mine who took the bus, and someone on the bus sidled up and offered to sell them a pigeon. While I don't know what the going rate for a pigeon is these days, you must admit, if you choose to take alternative methods home, you're guaranteed to have an adventure.

The Turquoise Sports Bra That Could

Fat Tuesday caught up with me today. 

Ever-determined to stick with my walking plan, I decided to walk this morning despite a bit of a headache from last night's Fat Tuesday shenanigans. I woke up, put on workout clothes, and carefully packed a dress, tights, boots and sweater in my manly backpack, deciding that there's nothing like a brisk walk in 42 degree weather to rid my system of last night's toxins. 

By the time I got to work I felt great. After throwing back a soy chai and checking a few emails, I went to change out of my workout clothes, ready to take on the day. Except I forgot to pack a regular bra. Of all things to forget! 

The result? I spent the day strategically hiding my bright turquoise sports bra, displayed boldly around the neckline of my otherwise conservative mustard yellow dress. I piled on a necklace and a sweater, but in order to keep the turquoise material from sticking out, I had to raise my shoulders and thrust my chin downwards to make my neck seem invisible. That was a fun little challenge. It was even more challenging when a guest came into the office and my coworker brought him over to meet me. When I stood up to shake the poor fellow's hand, I worked so hard to make my neck look invisible that he looked at me sideways, like I'm a weird old troll lady who lives under a bridge. 

Bra-hiding game aside, I managed to knock out a lot of things on my to-do list, one of which was to prep for an important customer call at 1:00.  Because that meeting was my top priority for the afternoon, I finished up with a full hour free to grab lunch across the street. Standing in line for lunch, I reviewed some work emails on my phone when I and saw the subject line:

 "Are we still on for today?" I scrolled down a little further and the body of the email said, "Amy, are you going to start the meeting?"

Gasping loud enough for the people in line to turn and stare at me, I realized that my meeting was for 12:00 instead of 1:00. Complete panic set in. I jumped out of line and ran full force back to my office, heart pounding. Surely people I ran past thought I'd just swiped a tip jar or an old woman's handbag. It wasn't until later this afternoon that I realized my bright turquoise sports bra was on full display for the world to see, because while I ran, I forgot to make my neck invisible.  

I ran out of the elevator and jumped over to my desk, starting the meeting at 8 minutes after noon, breathless and mortified. Lucky for me, this particular group of customers was a team of kindhearted and forgiving people, who got pretty tickled at the idea of me running down the street for them. But still, it was one of my most embarrassing professional moments.

Worse yet, one of our managers was in town from our headquarter office, and before my scheduling snafu, I offered to pick up his lunch, so that left both of us empty-handed and starving. Hating to ask for help, I begged a wildly understanding coworker to get our lunches while I dialed into the next call. I was extremely thankful, especially because I wasn't looking forward to walking back into a restaurant that I'd darted out of like the place was burning down.

So as I wrap up another day with 3 walking miles logged, I can't help but wonder if leaving my bra at home was part of some Ash Wednesday Master Plan, and that I should give thanks for my turquoise sports bra for helping me haul ass when I needed it most.