Hi.  My name is Katy, and I am not a runner. 

I have not been running for a month now.  To be honest, I think my brain is too small for running.  The way it bounces around in my skull leads me to believe that serious head trauma could result should I decide to continue running.  But it's not just the head trauma that is stopping me from accomplishing my goal of becoming a life-long runner, it is also my hypochondria/paranoia.  For most folks, hitting the pavement is how they clear their heads.  Make plans for the future.  Write their first screen-plays.  Not so with me.  The moment my pace increases, my mind starts racing.  "Is that my heart beat I hear?  Why is my heart beating in my forehead?  Let me check my pulse.  1,2,3...  OMG, is my pulse rate supposed to be that high. 725 beats per minute seems high.  I better walk.  I think I might be having a stroke.  No.  Don't you dare walk.  Don't be quitter."   So after a few more minutes of berating myself, I settle into the fact that I might actually not be dying and then my thoughts take an even darker dive.  Suddenly, every man I see is a sexual predator.  If a car starts slowing down as it approaches me, I begin planning my escape route.  My jog turns into a waiting game of- is this going to be the sicko that drags me into his car and takes me away from my family forever.  Then the car passes and I breathe a sigh of relief.  Matt thinks I would feel better if I just carried around a bottle of mace.  I think I would feel better if cellulite lotion really worked; then none of this would even be an issue.  But lotion doesn't work, the jarring of my tiny brain against my skull causes migraines, and creepy men in El Caminos scare me.  Running sucks! At this point I am beginning to lose hope, and guess what I do when I lose hope?  I go to Publix and buy two orange-cranberry scones from the bakery.  I eat one as soon as I get home and save one for breakfast.  This makes me feel better about how disappointing cellulite creams are.  It also allows me to forget about head trauma and elevated heart rates.  Most of all, an orange-cranberry scone from Publix could almost make me believe that a 48 year old man, with a sleeve of rebel flag tattoos, wearing a wife beater, and driving an El Camino is harmless.  I know.  Crazy.  It must be the antioxidants.  So much for running; now on to my next ill-fated attempt at completing something meaningful.  Until then, ta-ta!