Half a Baby Ruth

I woke up today, saw half a Baby Ruth sitting on the counter, and picked it up for breakfast. I quickly dropped it in horror. Not because I shouldn't eat candy bars for meal substitutes, but because I shouldn't eat them with guilt. Which apparently means it's time for BJA to work out. I don't have a gym membership and Billy Blanks is too big for our apartment, so I thought I'd give running (!?) a try. I haven't done it since junior year of high school at soccer tryouts - and I do believe I quit those for ballet.

Some people avoid the gym to avoid the scrutiny of others, but I think the gym's a safe place. Everyone is so preoccupied with their sports bra indents, butt sweat, and the mysterious difference between the abductor and adductor, that there's no time left for judging.

The real danger zone, my friends, is the streets. And I'm not talking about construction workers and their impressive vocabularies. Women think the reason to stay stationary is these dudes. Eh. It's not water slide fun, but let's not pretend we don't deal with this on a daily basis. Whether we're running or ordering a pumpkin slice at Starbucks, it's just a fact of life. Personally, it just makes me run away faster as I'm hauling my lady lumps up these hills.

No, no. It's the chicks I'm afraid of. I see a cute, put-together chick in my path and I will backtrack faster than Tom from Katie's advances. And while I know she's silently judging herself for hiding her flab under designer jeans that pull the junk in, or eating that fourth plate of tapas last night, or driving to her colonic this morning instead of walking, it doesn't take the sting out of her icy stare at my tomato face and Walmart sweat pants.

But, I did it. Now where's that nougaty goodness...