Baby, We Were Born to Run?

As Bruce Springsteen's "Baby, We Were Born to Run" blares from speakers at the annual Nationwide Children's Hospital Columbus Marathon and Half Marathon, I have a moment of exceptional gratitude. I am confident enough to believe I can actually complete my first half marathon, I am physically healthy enough to be standing at the starting line on my own two feet, I am surrounded by some of my best friends, and I am in the company of over 18,000 people who helped raise over three million dollars for pediatric care.  The feeling of gratitude and awe is intense.

That moment of gratitude and awe will soon be replaced by the pain and suffering that can only come from running 13.1 consecutive miles.  As for those running the full marathon?  I am not worthy of their company!

Of course, I didn't wake up that crisp October morning and just decide to go for a long, long run.  Nooooo, I spent 12 weeks preparing for that morning's run.

It all started with a well-intentioned friend.

We all have that one friend who is smart, organized, and level-headed. When that friend speaks, people listen.  My friend who is smart, organized, and level-headed suggested we train for and run a half marathon.  Turns out she's not as level-headed as everybody thought!

Here's the thing about running a half marathon:  as you train, you learn quite a few things about yourself and your dear, sweet running buddies.

For example, some ideas sound really good in a hypothetical sense.  Ever sign up for something months in advance and then regret it when the time comes to actually run 13.1 miles without stopping do it?  Yeah, me, too!  During the half marathon, I most appreciated the sign that read, "This sounded like a good idea 3 months ago!"

I totally and 100% blame my good friend for this, too.  I refuse to take any responsibility for signing up to run 13.1 miles because everybody knows I would normally travel this distance by car.  Clearly, the peer pressure was too much for me.

Another important lesson you learn while training with friends is that your body is completely and utterly unpredictable.  For starters, you will become keenly focused on your bladder and bowels.  What do you do if Mother Nature calls while you're in the midst of one of your long runs in the middle of nowhere?  As I learned from more than one running buddy, you should never trust a fart.  Never ever.

Ladies, you also need to take care of your boobies.  Yes, sports bras are dangerous contraptions.  Many a friend has nearly suffered strangulation in the process of putting one on or freeing oneself from it, but a good bra is the difference between happy boobies and chaffed and bleeding boobies.  Nobody likes bloody boobies.

As for your toes, well, somebody in the group is gonna lose a toenail.  Check out your toes prior to training, and bid farewell to at least one toenail.  Odds are, it's gonna happen.  Incidentally, a shoe half a size bigger can be the difference between keeping all your toenails happy and losing one to the cause.

The night before the half marathon is nothing short of incredible. Everyone knows carb loading is a key component to race preparation.  I may not be happy with my overall half-marathon performance, but I can carb load with the best of them. I would go as far as to say I am an elite carb loader.  Truly, one of the best.  Those who witnessed it would have to agree.

In the course of training, injuries can and will happen. Not everyone you train with will make it to the starting line with you on race day. You may have that one friend who will suffer an "injury" during training.  She will opt out of the race and instead volunteer to cheer you on and take pictures from the sidelines.  This is a clear sign of her higher intelligence.  Make note of this, and vow to suffer an "injury" next time, too, so you can hold hilarious signs like the one that read, "Remember....You paid money to do this Dumbass" or "My New Year's resolution was to hold a funny sign during a marathon."  These people are clearly smarter than the ones pounding the pavement!

The most amazing thing you will see and learn, however, is something so precious it may catch you by surprise like a double rainbow on a Fall day.

You will see compassion.  You will see the human spirit at its absolute best.

I passed a man dressed in full fireman gear. He had to be sweating while running in long protective gear with an oxygen tank on his back and a helmet on his head.  He ran on behalf of a fallen brother.

I saw countless participants running with signs on their shirts stating they were running on behalf of someone who could not run.

Each mile of the Nationwide Children's Hospital Columbus Marathon & Half Marathon is devoted to a child who has or is battling a medical condition. These young patients and their families line sections of their assigned mile and provide inspiration and perspective to weary runners.  Their stories are amazing and their smiles are infectious.

Mile 11 is Angel Mile, and this mile recognizes the young patient warriors who lost their battle.  This mile is lined by the loved ones who miss them so dearly. This mile is the longest and hardest mile, but this mile reminds runners of the privilege to run and the honor in running.

Eventually, and to your sheer delight, all the mile markers will fall away and the finish line will approach.

When you finish you will know, Baby, you were born to run.

Shoeless Wonder

My hubby ran a triathlon this past weekend.

You know, just a refreshing 500 meter swim, followed by a leisurely 15 mile bike ride, ending with a simple 5k run.  Yes, that's what he wanted to do on a perfectly beautiful EARLY Saturday morning while I slept.

He trained for this event. He swam. He ran. He biked.  He even practiced the transitions between each event.

It turns out my hubby can run fast, swim fast, and bike fast, but he is painfully slow in terms of changing out of wet clothes to dry clothes and from taking off bike shoes to putting on running shoes.  I helped time his transition times.  I encouraged him by mocking his slow transition pace.  Honestly, there are preschoolers who can put on shoes faster.

The morning of the race arrives.  Perfect race conditions.  I wait anxiously at the finish line.  Eight runners cross the finish line, and then I see my hubby.

He looks great. He looks fit.  He looks...shoeless?

He crosses the finish line in socks.

Apparently, someone accidentally took his shoes.  Driven by foolishness his competitive spirit, he decided to run the 5k and finish the race in his socks.

After the race, he and his fellow wacky running buddies talk about Abebe Bikila, Bruce Tulloh, and Herb James Elliot.  Of course, I have no idea who these people are, but they must have all accomplished great things without appropriate footwear.

I hate to brag, but I once went to the mailbox in just socks.

Now who's impressive?

Shhhhh...Bob Greene Has Secrets

The other night I was sitting in bed, drinking wine, munching on chips carrot sticks while simultaneously browsing various apps on my handy, dandy iPad who I have affectionately named Paddy.

I see an article on my Flipboard App entitled, "Live Strong, Feel Great:  Bob Greene's 3 Secrets to Feeling 20 Years Younger."

The article is actually from 2011, so I have no idea why my favorite app is recycling this particular article.  It must only mean the app gods are trying to tell me something about my lifestyle.  As I sit in bed consuming a large amount of calories at 11:00 PM, I reflect on what message they could possibly be trying to send me.  Hmmm?

Anywho, I'm initially annoyed imagining how young I would feel had I read Bob's dang article two years ago.  Then I read the article, and I am THRILLED to report I am already following all three of his "secrets."

Here are his secrets and...Shhhhh...keep this on the down-low because it's a secret, after all.

(Please note, I am now whispering to you because that's my secret-sharing voice):

Secret #1 - Maintain an active social life.
Well, Bob, no problem there!  I'm happy to say I have over 300 Facebook friends who I report to daily.  They know when I'm having a good day or a bad day.  At least a few of them like what I have to say, and they sure share the Facebook love with me on my birthday.  Plus, I always have my good buddy, Paddy the iPad, by my side.

Secret #2 - Try some tofu
I tried tofu.  I have no intention of trying it again.  Enough said.

Secret #3 -Get active
Well, my index fingers are remarkably active and that should count for something, right?  They get quite a workout texting, Facebooking, and flipping through apps.  I really do have svelte fingers.  I suppose exercise could have the same impact on the rest of my body, but for now I'm going to just continue exercising my fingers.  I would hate to pull a muscle or something.

After following these three tips, I guess it means I should feel 20 years younger.  That means I should feel like a 21 year old.

Bob, I hate to argue with you since you're the fitness guru, but I am waaaaaayyyy too sober to feel like my 21 year old self.  Guess I should pour myself another drink to celebrate my youthfulness!

10 Reasons Why I Won't Be Running a Marathon

I have friends running in a marathon this weekend.  There are really only ten reasons why I won't be participating, and I'm just sure you will understand.

Reason #10
I have two energetic children, one cat with bowel problems, another cat with a sensitive gag reflex, and a full-time job outside of the home.  Every day is a marathon.  Why would I voluntarily run another one on a perfectly good Saturday?

Reason #9:
Sweat.  Some women glow when they sweat. I just sweat. I sweat a lot.  I sweat in places I didn't know I had sweat glands.  And my sweat smells. And not like roses.  Once I got sweat in my eyes.

Reason #8
Sweat stings when it gets in my eyes, and I have a low threshold for that kind of discomfort when exercising.

Reason #7
Fear of death.  You know people do die while exercising.  It's true. 100% of people die after exercising.  It might be years or decades later, but they do die.

Reason #6
My exercise bra is a death trap. It's difficult enough to put it on dry, but taking it off while it is soaked with my sweaty sweat is a feat of athletic prowess. I've been trapped in my exercise bra in the past and it's a horrifying experience. I would have called 911, but I don't want anyone seeing me hanging half in and half out of an exercise bra that for some reason shrinks to half it's original size when soaked in my smelly sweat.

Reason #5
Is there an intermission in a marathon?  No, I don't think so.  I have needs. I need snacks and pee breaks. Since running walking traveling by foot for over 26 miles would take three days minimum, I'm a little unsure how to have my basic needs met.

Reason #4:
Crying in public is embarrassing. Yes, I cry when I'm sad, hungry, and feeling intense pain.  I'm fairly certain I would cry publicly for 24.6 miles.

Reason #3.
My bunion is the size of Texas.  That's right. I have a bunion that will not fit in Ohio. My bunion could kick your bunion's ass.  When I run, my bunion turns red and angry. I don't like it when it's angry.

Reason #2
I would get lost. I don't care how well marked the course is, after several miles of running I know I experience loss of blood flow to my brain.  All the blood seemingly pulls to my gigantic bunion. With the loss of blood flow to my brain, my brain becomes incapable of following simple tasks like following arrow signs or being able to stay on track.

Reason #1
I own a car. The last time I wanted to travel over 20 miles, I went by car.

Good luck to all my running friends.  My bunion and I wish you the best.

Tennis vs. Me

My tennis crush started last year when I picked up a tennis racket for the first time.  It was a surprise love affair because I have a long history of being really bad at sports.

In 6th grade I was a 5'10" flat chested, braces-wearing, permed hair tween who was as awkward as I looked.  Occasionally I was picked first in gym class by an idiot-child who erroneously believed my obscene height would equate to physical prowess. This was simply not true.

In gym class, I would frequently duck during basketball scrimmages.  Once while playing volleyball I was hit right in the face with the ball because I wasn't coordinated enough to lift my hands and shield myself.  In truth, the only physical activity I could do with any amount of competence was run.  Add a ball, and it just got complicated.

Fast forward three decades, and not much has changed (although I'm happy to report my braces are off and I did finally manage to grow some breasts!).

Now I have two children, and every Saturday I sit and watch them take tennis lessons.  Their coach finally convinced me to try tennis.  My kids made it look so easy; I thought I may have a chance.

I completely fell in love.  I wasn't good, but I thought I could get better.
I really worked at getting better.
My goal was to get good enough to wear a tennis skirt without feeling like a fraud.
Finally, I got to that point.  That's when my tennis crush blossomed into love. I was adequate at a sport that allowed me to shop for and wear cute clothes. Awesomeness.

I suppose I should have known Tennis would eventually break my face heart.

It happened on a beautiful fall evening during a weekly tennis clinic.
The clinic instructor groups players based on skill levels.  I was accustomed to playing on the court of shame..the losers' court...the court for newbies and klutzes.  That's my court.
But I'd been practicing...

Finally my moment to shine came. The tennis coach placed me on the advanced court. I was going to play doubles with three tremendously skilled women. I had arrived!  Like a young person moving from the kid table at Thanksgiving dinner to the grown up table, I had advanced.

I stood tall as I approached the court in my snazzy tennis skirt and hip shoes.
I was ready. I would impress them.

After a brief warmup, the game started. My partner and I scored first. I was feeling strong and confident.  The other team served to me. I swung, hit the ball over the net, followed through on my swing, and promptly hit myself in the head with my racket.

"Ouch," I thought.

I continued playing. I wasn't about to let that little misstep slow me down or cause me to lose focus.  Then I started sweating.  Strange because it was a cool evening, but I was under a lot of self-induced pressure to beat the crap out of my opponents play well.

I hit the ball again, and again I wiped more sweat from my face. I was really starting to sweat. I nonchalantly wiped more sweat off my face.

As I hit the ball a third time, I looked down at the ground in time to see a large drop of blood splash to the court. That's when I realized I wasn't sweating.  I was bleeding from my head.

The game stopped as the other three women looked on in horror. Not only had I hit myself in the face with my racket, causing a bloody gash under my eyebrow, but I had then repeatedly smeared blood all over my face.  I was either a tennis bad ass or a complete fool.  Can we go with tennis bad ass?

After being tended to by fellow tennis players who included a nurse, an eye doctor and ironically enough a psychologist, I was sent home to heal.

As I sat at home with a bag of frozen peas on my face, my daughter looked empathetically at me and said, "It's ok, mom.  I think you are still pretty good."  My son just wanted to hear more about the blood.

I suppose I'll never qualify for the US Open, but had anyone taped my obvious display of tennis inadequacy, I'm quite sure you'd be seeing me on the next episode of "The World's Funniest Home Videos."

Tennis, anyone?

Exercise with Children

My husband is a health nut.  Well, to be fair, he's really more of an exercise advocate. He has, and I am not kidding you, only missed 2 days of exercise in over 2 years.  2 years!

He frequently sends me links to articles in hopes of encouraging me to get off my fat ass and exercise more.   The latest article "Lack of Exercise asDeadly as Smoking, Study Finds" seems to suggest that instead of just feeling guilty about not exercising, I could have been chain smoking instead.  Is there no justice?

So recently, in an effort to get him off my back show him I value his every word, I started exercising with my children.  This was a hair brain idea and you should not attempt this at home.  Seriously.  Don't do this.

First, I convinced my 11 year old to go for a run with me.  I was hoping for a slow 2 mile jog where we would watch butterflies fly by us while talking about boys, puberty, and my love for her.

Yeah, I'm a numbskull. 

Instead my daughter viewed this leisurely trot as a sprint event.  From a distance I realized my daughter resembled a gazelle.  At least, that was my impression as sweat (or was it tears?) poured into my eyes creating a blurry vision of my little girl smoothly gliding away from me.  She was graceful, fast, and focused.  It was beautiful to watch until she was so far ahead, I could no longer see her.   

She was sweet enough to circle back around to me.  

At that point, she looked puzzled as she asked, "Mom, when did you get so slow?"

I would have responded but I couldn't breathe. 

Two days later my ego was nearly healed when I decided to take my 9 year old son to the bike path.  I thought he could ride his bike while I ran behind him.  Well, that's a total joke.  No way could I keep visuals on him.  I certainly tried but my legs were no match for my son's biking speed.  I did draw stares from other runners as they passed me.  I can only assume they were overcome by the smell of blood, sweat, and tears emitting from every pore of my body. 

My son waited patiently for me and then asked, "Geeez, mom, did you take a break or something?" 

Again, I couldn't form an adequate response since I was unable to breathe.

I can only assume exercise is contraindicated for my physical well-being.

To celebrate my renewed, albeit limited, interest in exercise, I took the kids out for ice cream.   

Shhhhhh.  Don't tell my exercise advocate!

Olympic Gold

I got Olympic gold. 
In fact I got several of them.  It was as easy as ordering a drink at a bar.  Mostly because my "Olympic Gold" is a drink at a bar.

Olympic fever is in the air.  Blessedly, that includes the beach bar at the resort where we stay during our summer vacation. Thus the "Olympic Gold" drink special.

Let's face it, if it weren't for the drink special, I would never get Olympic Gold.

For starters, I do not have the Olympic spirit.  As I watch an obscene amount of Olympics, I see cyclists crash their bikes, get back on, and continue racing.  I see swimmers swim and win a relay in the qualifying heat only to be excluded from swimming in the finals.  I see a footless man run a race, and I learn about countless athletes overcoming amazing stories of adversity in pursuit of Olympic gold.

On the flip side of the Olympic athlete is me.  I am a total sissy. 

If my bike crashed, I would curl up in the fetal position and cry like a baby.  I lack the Olympic spirit.  Completely. 

I also lack athleticism which is also apparently key to achieving true Olympic gold.

Excuse me, I need to take another swig of my Olympic Gold.

Mmmm.  Now where was I?

Perhaps I'm not an Olympic athlete because my mother didn't push me enough. 

While Olympians spent their childhoods perfecting their skills, my mother allowed me to sit outside and play in the dirt.  Yes, I am going to blame my mother for giving me a fun-filled childhood.  Mom, thanks a lot! 

Instead of trying to get my face on a box of Wheaties, my biggest challenge as a child was trying to hide as much junk as possible under my bed in an effort to make my room look clean.  This is no easy task and I suggest it becomes an Olympic sport.

In fact, there is an activity I want added as an Olympic event.

I would definitely make it to the Olympic trials if not go all the way to the gold.  After giving this an incredible amount of thought while sipping on my Olympic gold, I would like to recommend the following as the next Olympic sport:

Sock matching. 

That's right, people.  I could totally be a contender for gold if sock matching would ever get the respect it deserves.

I do the laundry for four people.  This means there are, at this very moment, 6,273 individual socks in my house.  I can match 6,272 within 5 minutes.  I hold on to the last sock indefinitely because I just know the second I throw it away its beloved match will be found.

Alas, there are not many 39-ish year old Olympians.  For this reason, if I want to experience Olympic greatness up close, my kids are going to have to bring home the gold.  I would like to propose the following activities be future Olympic "sports." This will up the odds of those two unambitious children being able to bring mommy home a gold:

-  Nose picking.  Gross, yes, but it's a talent.  You've got to lack all shame and be totally  committed to really digging deep.  I've got a child up to that challenge.

-  Lego scattering.  Please don't confuse this with actually building a Lego structure.  I'm talking about the ability to take a set of small Lego pieces and as quickly as possible scatter them throughout an area.  For the sake of argument, let's say the area is a house.  A bronze medalist may be able to scatter Legos to 2-3 rooms within a 20 second period, but a true champion can scatter Legos to all four corners of the house and leave a couple in the bathtub just for good measure. 

Yeah, I'm really proud of my Olympic hopefuls.

Now, please excuse me.  I'm about to get another Olympic Gold.

The Olympic "Spirit"

The Olympics inspire hope, increase patriotism, showcase incredible talent, and remind me of how absolutely un-Olympian I am.

Perhaps it's the fact that I'm breathless after carrying loads of laundry up a flight of stairs.  Maybe it's the fact that when I chase my children, they never get caught.  Or maybe it's the realization that my definition of "swimming" includes a raft and a cocktail. The sad fact is, the Olympics puts my athletic ineptness into sharper focus.

As if that's not sad enough for me, now the Olympics is calling my libido into question, too.  Why does it always come back to sex?

Read this and you'll understand what I mean:  Will You Still Medal in the Morning?

Ok, I cannot lie. I am a little surprised.
I'm not surprised that gorgeous, young, physically fit athletes are having sex in the Olympic Village.  Nah, that's not surprising.  Have you seen these olympians? Sex between consenting, athletic, beautiful people happens all the time in my imagination, in the Olympic Village, and in works of fiction.

This is what surprises me: "At the 2000 Sydney Games, 70,000 condoms wasn't enough, prompting a second order of 20,000 and a new standing order of 100,000 condoms per Olympics."

Only 100,000 condoms?
Yeah, that's right.  Olympic Village needs more condoms.

Do the math.

There are more than 10,000 athletes at the London Olympics.
The Olympics last 16 days.
That's 10 condoms per athlete with less less than 1 condom per day per athlete.

Maybe I've been watching men's swimming and diving events too long, but I think they better order more condoms.  Any sexually frustrated housewife can tell you, the men's swim teams need their own supply of condoms.  Just one look at those wet, buff bodies and you will agree I need to stop watching every men's swim event.  I wish I could say I'm just showing my patriotism, but I didn't see a single skeet competition.  Not one.

Seriously, have you seen them swim?  Strong, hard bodies swimmers.  Seriously, I need to watch other events.  Somehow I don't think it should be men's gymnastics or men's track.

Ironically enough, I'm writing this while my husband watches woman's volleyball.

Sigh.

I am no Olympian.  A statement that shocks no one, I know.

2012 Olympic's Opening Ceremony

Good luck, London!

All eyes will be on you. I also think most brains behind those eyes will be thinking, "It's a tough act to follow."

Who doesn't remember the Opening Ceremony at the 2008 Beijing Olympics?
The performance cost an estimated $100 million dollars to produce and lasted four hours. An astounding 15,000 "volunteers" performed in the Beijing Opening Ceremony. The ceremony was amazingly stunning. I'm amazed by it still, and it was 4 years ago. This from someone who can't remember what she did yesterday and sometimes gets in her car and forgets where she is going. The performance was unforgettable eye candy.

How in the world do you follow that act?
Poor London.

I'm reminded of children's mind numbing talent shows. Twenty minutes into the talent show a beautifully dressed 5 year old child approaches a piano and plays the most amazing Mozart piece. All performers prior to the pianist are immediately forgotten as the prodigy plays flawlessly. Immediately afterward, my own child a child in a stained t-shirt walks on stage with a tin can and a wooden spoon. The audience smiles politely as the child bangs on the can. Suddenly that average tin can performance sounds like nails on chalkboard having had the grave misfortune of following China the brilliant pianist.

I'm not saying London is going to offer us a tin can and wooden spoon performance (You aren't, are you, London?). I just think London has a really tough act to follow. But who doesn't love an underdog?

Of course, the Opening Ceremony isn't just a glorified talent show with fireworks and drama. No, it's much more than that.

It's about reminding Americans how absolutely stupid we are about geography.
Since the countries are introduced in alphabetical order, the U.S.A fans must stay glued to televisions until nearly the end. In the process, we learn there are countries we've never heard of before. Countries like Swaziland, Timor Leste, and Mauritania (Is it just me, or does Mauritania sound like an umbrella drink with a dash of Mary Jane?). Not only are there countries we couldn't find if given a world map, there are also people who actually live in those countries including Olympians. How about that?!

Yes, Americans can learn a lot during the Opening Ceremony as we wait anxiously to see our Team U.S.A approach in their outsourced uniforms made in China. (What were you thinking, Ralph Lauren?)

Geez, China gets a gold medal in Opening Ceremonies and uniform making, AND the Olympics haven't even started!

Good luck, London. We are rooting for your success!

Exercising Never Felt So Good!

I am not making this up. There are studies suggesting some women orgasm simply by exercising.

I've never really enjoyed exercising, but apparently I've been doing it wrong.

"Any exercise that uses the core muscles seems to trigger that sense of pleasure." Apparently, exercises that induce a "coregasm" (again, I am not making this up) include biking, chin-ups, climbing rope, and yoga.

I am physically incapable of doing a chin-up. In my defense, I have a very long neck.
I also cannot climb rope because there is a lot of me to carry up a rope and I've never really seen the point. Put a piece of cake at the top of the rope, and then maybe I'll climb that rope. Having said that, since reading about the study, I do have a sudden urge to sign up for every yoga class I can find.

In the past, I've never been able to enjoy yoga because my mind is a lot like a ride at the fair. It is not screwed together tightly, it goes a little too fast, and it is operated by a scary person.

To be good at yoga don't you need to shut off your brain for a period of time and just be still? That's hard for me to do. It's also hard for me to orgasm while walking up a flight of stairs. Just saying.

However, now that I'm in the loop about the "benefits" of exercise, I'm willing to give yoga another try. Like any good student, I googled some yoga poses so I could be prepared.

Here's what I learned:
People who do yoga are perverts.
Please google "yoga's happy baby pose" before disagreeing with me.
Yoga enthusiasts may also be carnies.
Please google "yoga's side crow pose" for evidence. Yes, I research my facts.

I've spent a fair amount of time in fitness centers and know a few things.
By "fair amount" I mean "hardly any."
None-the-less, here are some additional facts:

- I am never going back to a fitness center now that I know there are women coregasming all around me (to be clear, I'm not grossed out just jealous);

- This research gives new meaning to the need to wipe down the equipment between users;

- Spinning isn't just referring to the wheels on the bikes

According to the study, "A handful of woman even say they have had sexual feelings while mopping."

Come on! Now they are just being ridiculous, right?
I mean, Ladies, we know a clean floor makes us feel good, but not THAT good.

I think I speak for the masses when I say, seeing your partner with a mop in his hand is arousing (and by "mop" I mean "mop"). I cannot deny the arousal I feel when seeing someone else clean my floors. However, actually mopping myself into an orgasm is somewhat less likely.

Anyone who has ever been in my home knows how little satisfaction I receive from mopping. I'm raising dust bunnies the way some people raise cattle. If mopping led to a "coregasm" I would unquestionably have floors from which you could eat. Not that you would because you would be wondering where I had last coregasmed. Not that I would tell you because I am very civilized, obviously. I know it's in poor taste to even talk about coregasming. Of course, it's also in poor taste to eat off the floor. I was really just suggesting it as an example vs. something you would actually want to do. See what I mean about my brain? This kind of stream of consciousness does not bode well for my chances at being successful with yoga or coregasming.

I'm not sure I believe a "coregasm" is actually possible, but I'm bound and determined to give it the ol' college try.

Worst case scenario, I'll have the strongest core muscles ever!

Yoga, anyone?