����As of today my body and I are not on speaking terms. I'm not sure exactly how long this snit will last, but let me assure you that we are both terribly cranky at this moment.

����We are tiffing over an incident at my gym this morning.

����Now from the beginning, my trainer Will stressed over and over again that when I'm exercising I should always listen to my body and never push it too hard, because that's how injuries happen.

����I like to think I have been a very good listener as far as my body goes, but perhaps it would disagree.

����Tough nougies. This is MY diary, so my version of events stands, eh.

����Okay, so this morning I'm on the back machine which I now have up to 75 pounds of weight and three sets of 15 repetitions. I am very proud of this because my back has been touchy from years of me building rock walls and not listening to it when it told me, "This rock is too heavy. You should drop it and pick up another rock."

����Yes, there have been communications issues in the past. I admit this. But that was then, this is now.

����So like I said, I'm on the back machine and I'm hardly breaking a sweat; I've been at this weight and reps for almost two weeks. I decide to throw on another set of reps since everyone tells me more repetitions mean stronger muscles.

����My body KNOWS I'm about to do another 15 back raises. Does it say, "Um, Marn, don't do that. It's too much and you will be instantly thrown into an unending world of back pain."

����Noooooooooooooooo. Instead it lets me start on the extra reps without a muttering so much as a peep and THEN it screams, "WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING YOUR DIMWITTED DAUGHTER OF A BRAIN DAMAGED AMOEBA?"

����Excuse me? EXCUSE ME?

����How can I listen when nothing has been said? Huh? HUH?

����So like I said, the body and I, We Are Not Speaking. And at the moment I am hobbling about the house in a way that makes Granny Clampett look like some spry young thing just itching to audition for River Dance.

����Fine.

����Speaking of itching, it looks like my hair extentions have to go. (Oh yes, Unexpected Segues Which Make Absolutely No Sense R Us here at MarnCo and thank you so very much for noticing.)

����A week ago I decided to make a last minute visit to the daughter and to have a friend of hers braid my hair into a head full of teensy little plaits. Because I have always wanted Fairy Princess Hair, Camille added bits of white plastic hair in to extend my own pathetic tresses from the tips of my shoulders down to the middle of my back.

����I thought no maintenance hair might be great for our trip to Oz this fall, but that it might be a good idea to try it out first. It turns out that this try before you fly idea was smart because at the moment my head feels as if it has been attacked by a ginormous army of cooties. My scalp is red and itchy, as is the skin on my neck and back, so I suspect I am allergic to the plastic hair. Bye bye fairy princess locks, hello again to drab middle-aged lady hair.

    Come to think of it, my body didn't mention anything about fake hair allergies, either.

    I WANT to listen to it, but it NEVER talks to me anymore. Do you think this relationship can be saved?

����*Sigh.*