Please allow me to introduce you to my latest facial: Trader Joe's Imported English Authentic Lemon Curd. The word authentic is apparently crucial because there are all kinds of imposter curds out there masquerading as the real thing. It has put the queen in a right tizzy and she's got her corgis nosing around the docks as we speak, nipping at the heels of anyone who smells like this.
At any rate, it's no joke, this metabolism thing. I was at Caroline's cello lesson the other day and made the mistake of picking up her teacher's Good Housekeeping magazine which fell open to an article entitled: How your metabolism grinds to a halt in your mid-thirties, so sorry if that happens to be you, because now you have nothing left to live for.
The article also said if you only do one form of exercise, like running for example, then you're more doomed than ever because your body will get bored with the activity and be all, "Sorry, pal, but I'm not burning any more calories until you get a life." As it happens, the only form of exercise I do is running. So basically, this article gave me every reason to hope for the future. Hey, Good Housekeeping, I'd like to take a bat-sized Toblerone and whap you over the head.
Speaking of running, a few years ago my friend began training for a marathon. I was so intrigued! So inspired! So close to joining her on this quest. Then I found out about the training regimen. Do you like precision handiwork? A military lifestyle? Folding Martha Stewart's t-shirts? If so, then training for a marathon is for you. On a predetermined day you hook yourself up to a machine with tons of wires and suction cups sticking to your body, and you begin running while scientists in lab coats scream at you in a foreign language. From the results of this test you average your speed and determine how fast you need to run in order to reach your marathon goal. After that, every time you lose focus and start slowing down, Lance Armstrong comes out of nowhere and pings you with yellow wristbands.
Five minutes into her explanation of the training, I was sitting in a corner and humming loudly to myself. Keeping track of how far I run and how long it takes me to do it? Not my cup of tea. Concealing bottles of water in the desert at night and hoping I can recognize which cactus is my hiding spot when I stagger by at an unearthly hour the following morning? Doesn't tickle my fancy. Oh, and another thing I don't want to do? Run 26 miles.
I'm the kind of runner who runs in order not to think. My best runs are when my brain disengages from my body and I forget about the physical world altogether. My worst runs are when I cannot ignore the fact, every step of the way, that I'm running.