I thought I had hopped on the Hallowe'en ball early this year. When I realized I didn't have any ideas I threw myself on the mercy of my three loyal readers who responded with a veritable plethora of great ideas.

It was hard to choose, but I decided that since my last name is Simmons it would be fun to run with the Richard Simmons parody which combined humour and gym type stuff. So with the decision made, I went back to work.

Unfortunately, there is no such thing as a costume fairy. On Friday when I was at the gym everyone asked me if I would dress up again this year. Unbeknownst to me, last year's zombie aerobics instructor had made a big impression. I suddenly realized that I hadn't arranged a freakin' bit of my costume and I was three days away from Hallowe'en.

I had a moment of deep panic, but I quickly calmed down because, really, how hard could it be to find an afro wig, some red shorts and a white wife beater tee?

You know how in soap operas they used to have this really ominous organ chord play to foreshadow that something terrible was about to happen?

This would be a good place for that to happen.

After gym I drove half an hour to the village where I buy my groceries. The few places that had Hallowe'en stuff had been picked clean. "No problem," I told myself. I decided to drive another 20 minutes down the highway to the town of 8,500 people. There were lots and lots of stores there.

Oh yes, there were lots and lots of stores. Do you think I could find an afro wig? Huh? HUH? No, no I could not because the people who are on the beam, the people who do not live their lives in the trough of procrastination, had already bought all the afro wigs. There are no words for how much I hated those people at that moment.

But then I told myself I could throw some perm rollers in my hair and turn it into an afro. That left red shorts and a wife beater tee. How hard could it be to find red shorts and a wife beater tee? Huh? HUH?

I live in Quebec. We are about three seconds from winter. Winter is serious in this part of the world. The stores are full of fleece this and thermal that and let me tell you the stores are not going to waste an iota of valuable shelf space on red shorts or wife beater tees.

Three hours out from the gym and I had accomplished exactly zero progress on my Hallowe'en costume. I was focussing so hard on hunting and gathering my costume bits that I hadn't had any lunch after an intense workout. My blood sugar levels crashed and burned, leaving me tired and cranky. Oh, and let's not forget the shoulder injury I gave myself hotdogging just before I left the gym. No, let's not forget that.

So, feeling tired, cranky and extremely sore (in other words in the best possible place to make a rational decision) I decided, "Screw it" and drove home.

Fast forward to nine p.m. on Sunday night, the night before Hallowe'en. The spousal unit asked about my Hallowe'en costume. I whined. I grumped. I told him that I might book out of going to the gym Monday because I was still sore and Hallowe'en is a stoopid holiday and why had I told everyone I would dress up? Wah wahhhhh wahhhhhhhh.

The spousal unit rolled his eyes and gave me that sarcastic "oh boo hoo poor you look" and opined that I was too much of a gym rat not to show up.

Gym rat.

A costume idea was born.

I would dearly love to claim that I instantly whipped off a very credible rat mask, but that would be a lie. Under the careful supervision of the family rodent specialist, Enid, the spousal unit created a mask using a cardboard file folder, tape, twist ties for the whiskers and shoelaces to tie it on.

Um, I coloured it.

And I mostly stayed in the lines.

Does that count?

I figured out a tail by taking apart a paper grocery bag and then twisting it into a long thin tail. It pinned to the back of my leotard. I made a sign that read "Gym Rat" because I wasn't sure who'd catch the pun. And so at 10:30 the night before Hallowe'en I had a costume. Yep, despite my shocking procrastination, my whiney attitude and my utter lack of artistic skills, I had a costume.

What can we learn from this?

You can sail through life in a sea of procrastination and bad 'tude and do this with few discernable skills if, when you're picking a life partner, you pick one who can make a decent rat mask.

No need to thank me for this valuable insight. I'm all about sharing the wisdom.

This morning I showed up at my gym to find my trainer in an afro wig, dressed as Richard Simmons' mom. If I had had a minimum of initiative and got on the great idea to be Richard himself, I could have totally cracked her up.

Drat.

Last year I won a free month at my gym for best costume by default, because no one else dressed up. Sadly, this year the competition looks to be fairly stiff. I saw a very good fitness witch and another woman came in dressed as winter. It was a very elaborate and beautiful costume. It was so far above a rat costume that had been thrown together with spit and shoelaces the night before Hallowe'en that it was embarrassing. I've pretty much kissed off the free month.

This morning I had a terrific run. Set the treadmill for hills, set the speed at 6.5 mph (which is fast for me) and breezed through it. Which is not to say that I wasn't a sweating, wheezing mass of damp gym rat at the end of it, because I was. Thing is, I wasn't a sweating, wheezing ohmigawd-I-think-I'm-gonna-puke gym rat.

Absence of ohmigawd-I-think-I'm-gonna-puke=terrific for anyone keeping track.

Everyone is unique. There are women who come into my gym and announce that they are about to run off a piece of pie or a doughnut. I look at them in amazement, because there's no way no how that I would kill myself for pie.

Yet, I am completely willing to kill myself for a Totally Insane Fitness Goal. The last one was pull-ups. I cannot begin to tell you how much sweat went into doing one single pull-up. One. With my shoulder injury, I have to let my pull-ups slide for a while, so for my new, improved Totally Insane Fitness Goal I've been toying with the notion of going for an eight minute mile before Christmas.

Will I make it? Um, probably not. But that's not the point. The point is to set the bar high and keep jumping up towards it. Here I am in my 50's and I'm learning to savour the words "personal best".

Oh, man, how did that happen?

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 1191.13 miles. Over half way there. Oh, man, please let this be over