As of last night the world headquarters of MarnCo, the ruthless multinational behind the Big Adventure will no longer be in the teensy tiny cell known as my office.

It has been decided that now that we've changed the roof over this room, it's time to raise the ceilings, improve the insulation, change the tired old carpeting and put in a larger window.

It will still be a cell, but it will be a more cheerful, brightly lit, warmer cell. You will be happy to hear that during those hours I am trapped in there working, through my big new window I will see more of what I am missing outside. Oh yes, I think that we can all agree that in the world of cells, ambiance is everything.

The downside of this is that I have to squish all my stuff into our already squished livingroom for what looks to be about two months since the spousal unit only works on our home during the weekends. I am already stressed out just with the preliminary moving of all my computer stuff and the buttload of useless trash charming memorabilia I have somehow managed to accumulate in this small space.

Oh man.

You know, Virginia Woolf was right when she said a woman needs a small income and a room of her own. That tiny room is my retreat, a small corner of the house I can slip off into and be by myself when I need it.

I miss it already.

This morning at breakfast I mentioned to the spousal unit that I'm going to be even harder to live with than normal while this renovation perks along because I'll be stressed out by the mess and the loss of my teensy personal space.

"I've always found sex is good for stress," he said solemnly, looking at me over the top of his reading glasses. I looked back at him with equal solemnity. "Am I allowed to write that in my diary?"

He started to laugh. While wangitude, stamina and prowess are admirable qualities in a man, to my mind a sense of humour is probably even more desirable.

Speaking of men, my 20-year-old nephew has gone on a fitness craze. Right after Christmas he decided to get himself into shape. While I have yet to build up enough arm strength to do more than three push-ups in a row, he's gotten to the point where he can set up three chairs in a V formation--putting one arm on each chair that makes up the top of the V, his feet on the chair at the bottom of the V--and do push-ups dropping his body BELOW the level of the freakin' chairs. Yeah. I know.

AND he does three sets of 25.

I think digital special effects of some sort might be involved here.

I decided I would humble him. That I would teach him what pain really means.

Oh yes. I lent him The Purple Happy Fun Ball of Pain, Humiliation and Torture, the exercise ball that more than once has left me a broken woman.

Stop looking at me that way. It Was For His Own Good.

He loves it. Within minutes of starting to use it he saw all the possibilities. He Is One With The Ball. It is very, very hard not to hate his guts. All I can say is that it's a good thing I have loved him since he was a baby.

My nephew has taken up jogging. I asked if I could come running with him. He agreed. We both thought that all those miles I have logged on the elliptical machine doing aerobic cross-training would leave me a veritable running machine.

This weekend, while my nephew was off gallivanting with his girlfriend, I read up on running technique and equipment. I even went to a sports store and got special running shoes.

They are silver.

Is it wrong to expect silver shoes to have Super Duper Powers?

Sunday morning I decided I would go on a test run, break in my Shoes of Super Duper Powers, glory in my gazelle-like abilities.

Tell me, do gazelles wheeze?

While Nicole, one of the members of the Five Hundred Posse is already running five miles, I couldn't do a half mile. Right about the half mile mark my heart tried to have an out of body experience, doing it's best to pound its way out of my chest.

Stupid heart.

We won't even comment on what my lungs were up to.

Stupid lungs.

Oh and the shoes? Despite their silvery goodness, they are completely lacking in Super Duper Powers.

Stupid shoes.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 254.74 miles (409.9 kilometers)
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers