Monday, Aug. 18, 2003
Dear Diary:

So, it's official. Come October 5 I'm going to be in Montreal to Jog For The Jugs, Race For The Rack, March For The Melons, Hike For The Hooters.

Well, officially they call it the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation Run For The Cure, but personally I much prefer saying that I'm Jogging For Jugs.

This one is personal. Two years ago, when I had my very first mammogram, it turned up what the radiologist termed "an anomaly". Anomaly is the word they tell you because they know that if they say, "Lady, there's a lump in your breast" then you're pretty much going to fall to pieces. Anomaly is just clinical enough that you can hold yourself together. For a while.

Then you go home and tell your husband and try to be brave and optimistic. You both agree that the odds are overwhelming that it's benign. But that night, and many other nights afterwards, you lie awake and think of all the things that could come with lumps. You think about radiation, about chemotherapy, about losing all your hair, about being terribly terribly sick. You think about what it might mean if you have to have a breast cut off.

You wonder if your husband will still love you if you become a bald, puking, chestless woman in a society that glorifies the breast.

And then, when you get to the very darkest part of the night, you think about what it might mean if you endure the radiation, the chemotherapy, even the surgery and in the end none of it works and you die. Oh, it's a party.

Me, I was really, really lucky. My anomaly turned out to just be a benign lump. But the thing is that about one in ten North American women are going to find out that they have breast cancer. I don't think one of them should ever have to doubt that she will get better.

This would be the part where I shake down my three loyal readers for some money.

Yep, I'm looking for sponsors and if you have a bit of loot to throw into the pot, then I would be terrifically grateful. If 20 of my three loyal readers throw in $5 each, then I will have raised my $100 goal. Not only do you get the glow of contributing to a great charity, and an income tax receipt, by golly you can go to sleep at night knowing that you've done Your Bit For The Boobs.

I mean, really, who amongst us does not want to known as a Bazonga Booster? My thoughts, exactly.

If you do decide to donate and you keep a web journal yourself, please let me know and I'll provide a link to you. If you're doing the run in Montreal, too, please let me know and maybe we can meet up or even form a team. It would be fun, in a death march sort of way, right?

Today I officially began my training. I ran for just over 30 minutes and covered just over 2 1/4 miles which leaves me quite a ways shy of the 5K/3 miles that the run entails. While I know that they really don't care how you log the distance, I'm really, really hoping I can drag my aged carcass into enough fitness that by Oct. 5 I can actually run all the way.

At a turtle sort of pace.

Oh, who am I kidding? Turtles will be blowing my doors off.

Must. Be. Realistic.

Snails! Now there's a reasonable goal. Right here, right now I formally announce that I plan to kick the butt of any snail that runs the Jog for the Jugs.

Well, senior citizen snails, anyhow.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 384.11 miles (618.2 kilometers)
Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck. Half way smoochTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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