I will swear up and down to anyone who asks that I am  not a competitive person. Sure, I enter writing contests. But I won’t run foot races–I’d rather keep my exercise to myself.  Strictly as a relaxation. Or so I say.

I’m lying.

It’s happened more times than I can count: I read about an athlete, or a celebrity working out X number of miles, or Y number of hours a day, losing Z pounds, and I make a cement mental note to do the same. No matter that the professional athlete GETS PAID to perform at that level. Or that a celebrity is REQUIRED to keep in that kind of shape; despite the fact that no one else I read about is working full-time while writing a novel. If an Olympian does 1,000 crunches a day, by gum, I’m bumping myself up from my pathetic 750. Starting today.

True story.

If a runner passes me, or heaven forbid, a teenager dares to move the elliptical faster than my little legs can follow, I will feel bad about it all day long.  I even heard someone confess to weighing 80 pounds as a (very ill) adult, and immediately I went to “why the hell am I carrying around these extra twenty?” Eighty pounds sounds great! Now, all I have to do is stop eating for the rest of April, and spend every minute of my free time in the gym. No problemo!

Granted, I can stand to quit my dried fruit habit cold turkey. Today is day one.  See, I don’t like to eat in moderation, either.  I simply can’t munch on a small portion of  food I like.  I am not that person.  Never have been. I am the person who eats a full pound of dried fruit and floats on the natural sugar high for hours–depriving my body of other nutrition. Say, lunch and dinner. 

Moderation, subtlety, small quantities of stuff I like–those are physical impossibilities. I like to work out. So I work out for two hours every day. I like to eat dates, so I eat enough to jack up my blood sugar to levels that would make Hershey quake. When I’m writing, I want to write all the time, and feel badly when I do anything else–unless it’s working out.

I’ve heard “chill out,” and “take it easy” my whole life.

I’ll try.

But until I go in for major personality surgery– keep that dried fruit, and those teen speed queens away from me.

I guess I should downgrade what I call my morning exercise. Let’s use the term “jog” from now on. Because today I actually RAN for a few miles (why? I guess I wanted to feel like a speeding bullet). And now I can barely hobble around the office.

Funny, you’d think six miles a day at any speed would prepare me for just a few miles flat-out. Nah. My thighs and calves are screaming bloody murder. In harmony. For real: it’s like Jan and Dean are surrounding my kneecaps. I AM the little old lady from Pasadena.

Of course, part of my operating in slow motion could in fact be related to the axe I’m convinced will fall any day, now. It’s been s-l-o-w at work. Nobody’s giving me much to do. I know what that means….

I experienced something very like this tumbleweeds-in-the-break-room panic in 2000. Back then, we called it “dot-commed.” But what term can we coin for Bush completely destroying the American economy? I suggest “oiled.” As in, “My ass got oiled today. I’ve got to file for unemployment.”

It hasn’t happened yet, but the signs are in the air. Ah, well. Six months off would give me more time to run, that’s for sure. And to repair the muscle fibers I so enjoy tearing up in the morning.

The country, I’m afraid, will take a bit longer than a few long lunch times to recover.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m no fan of intense heat. My skin turns pink and peels just thinking about direct sunlight. Worse, I have a naturally ruddy complexion, on top of which sunburn makes me looks like an Oompa Loompa (in the Gene Wilder version). Applying makeup only makes it worse. Then I look like I work in a candy factory AND a strip club.

Days when the temperature goes over 100 degrees are especially fun: my respiratory system takes out ads for travel to Australia, Greenland. Enough’s enough, my lungs insist, narrowing to the size of a straw. The next time you decide to leave the house in this heat, bring your Albuterol, heh, heh, or we’ll be seeing you in the ER.

(I swear my lungs actually speak. In English.)

Still, today marks the third day in a row where the mercury won’t cross 80 degrees, and I find myself mourning the passage of yet another summer. Much as I love fitted blazers and boots, boots, boots, I have a fond spot for sandals. (Socks, see, imply the possibility of snow. Which means guilt. Because there’s no way I’m going outside to shovel. I just feel badly when my fiance has to.) 

There’s a freedom in warm weather. I love being able to run every morning, without fear of slipping on ice. Since I never blow dry my hair, there’s fewer head colds, too. I guess we’ve got a few more hot ones on the docket, but they’re getting fewer and farther between.

Time marches on. Temps drop. For the next 9 months I’ll slow from “run” to “walk” to “trudge.”

My lungs, however, congratulate me on getting through yet another seemingly impossible season.

After bemoaning my fate for a full 24 hours I decided it’s not the worst thing in the world to be on antibiotics in the summertime. The whole “take while eating” part, for starters. That’s always a sweet directive. Though I have to admit the line about avoiding dairy products threw me for a loop. I could practically hear the Skinny Bitch book people laughing in the background. “We’ll make a vegan out of you yet! Mwah ha ha ha!”

Fat chance, skinny bitches.

What was really worrisome to me, though, was the thought of a weeklong hypersensitivity to sun. I mean, it’s mid-July. There’s about six more weeks’ worth of outdoor activities to be had in WY, and then not so much until, uh, next July. But I went to the Siren Music Festival on antibiotics once. I almost passed out, stone cold sober. So I know that sun and medications (or maybe just Coney Island and big crowds) don’t mix.

Today, though, I happened upon an interesting revelation: I actually revel in the role as a delicate flower. While eating lunch with a friend in the park, I had to be the one to request a shady spot. La dee da dee da…. “Can we sit over here, under this tree, with our legs crossed and our teacups balanced precariously on one knee?” Damn if I didn’t want a parasol.

Porcelain dolls have something on us sun junkies, I’m thinking. The whole pale skin thing is hard to maintain without an element of learned helplessness. For a week, it might be fun to dabble in: ”Can’t chat, have to run, might catch a UV ray, so sorry…” 

…So long as I can go right back to soaking up the Vitamin D, eating wedges of cheese, while I make fun of vegans for casting such skinny shadows.