So many ways to say, "I love you". There's the classics of course--the open declarations, the flowers, the chocolate, the mushy cards or letters.

But then, there are also the tiny little off-beat gestures--things such as doing a chore the other person hates so they don't have to, or covering their head with Friskies flavoured spit.

That last one would be a cat thing, of course.

So, it's now official. Norma and Enid are Best Friends In All The World. Each morning after they gobble down their breakfast they studiously lick each other's heads, depositing that much coveted layer of cat food flavoured spit that every well-groomed feline should have.

The grooming lasts a few minutes and then quickly degenerates into Wrestlemania, as the two of them joyously throw their best kitty-fu moves on each other. This is interspersed with madcap dashes up and down the kitchen floor. Glee like this is infectious and it's a hilarious way to start the morning except ...

Sitting off to one side is a veritable black hole of wistfulness, our other cat, Zubby. He so desperately, desperately wants to be part of the Friskies flavoured spit fest. He goes nuts when Wrestlemania breaks out--he throws himself on his back and rolls around, looks wistfully at Norma and Enid, practically begs to be included.

But the minute he makes a move to join in, the girls freeze in their tracks and hiss and growl at him. They can't forget all the times he'd picked on them when we first brought them home, the flashing claws, the clumps of missing fur. They won't let bygones be bygones. Zubby's past behaviour created this situation, of course, but it's sad to watch his loneliness.

The spousal unit thinks that once the snow disappears and the world is alive with things to dead, the situation might change since Zub is a rodential killing machine and neither Norma or Enid seem to be able to catch anything. Zubby's mad deading skillz may make him cool enough that the girls will let him become a member of the kitty-fu dojo.

I live in hope.

I also continue to live in pain. Yes, it appears that I have entered my Advil years. Oh bliss, oh thrills and a couple or raptures.

By Wednesday morning I had recovered nicely from the running throw down. Had a great three mile run thanks to Mis' Second Wind workout CD which included everything from Lords of Acid to Orbital vs Moby (Speed Freak). Even ran six extra speed intervals at the end because the new tunes had me stoked.

Headed off to the free weights section and that's where I got myself into trouble. There was a guy my age over in the squat cage using the Olympic bar to do bicep curls. I could have waited for him to be done and stepped in to do my own bent over rows but did I? Oh, no, because that would have involved patience and patience is something mature people have.

So I went to one of the bench press stations, grabbed a 45 pound Olympic bar from there, threw a 10 pound weight on either side and proceeded to do my bent over rows. The problem? Well, when I had my first 12 reps in I was left standing there with 65 pounds of metal in my hands and no convenient place to set it down.

Now I could have put it down on the floor, but for reasons I do not fathom, I decided to just stand there holding the freaking bar for my "break". I think we can all agree that for the two minutes I was doing that I was pretty much the epicenter for all the stupidity in our universe. Standing like that meant I didn't really get a break and when I bent over to do the next set of reps somehow I misjudged the angle and completely tweaked my lower back.

Completely tweaked as in quiet cry of anguish, drop the bar to the ground, and follow it myself. If you think I was shuffling the day after my running throw down, believe me, I looked like a veritable sprite compared to the way I hobbled out of the gym on Wednesday.

It was me, the Advil and the heating pad for the rest of the day. I had a bad night but woke up Thursday and told the solicitous spousal unit that I was feeling better. This morning I was almost as good as new but my back felt tender, know what I mean?

Proving that he has come by the title Mr. Wangitude quite justly, the spousal let it be known that since my health was so much better maybe we should celebrate with the marital duties. There are many gentle ways that you can let your partner know that a booty call is not in the cards. The words "Touch me and you're a dead man" would not be one of them, but it does get the point across.

It's a good thing indeed that the spousal unit has a finely honed sense of humour.

When I got to the gym this morning I decided to just power walk, forget about the rowing machine, and only do lower body weight training. When I got on the treadmill I put Mis' second CD in the player. The first song? Brak -- Don't Touch Me. I almost fell off the treadmill because I was laughing so hard.

Talk about your d�ja vu, eh?--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 246.73 miles.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers