Never turn your back on your butt.

Seriously. Words to live by.

When I started this 10K running program just before Christmas I must admit that I slacked off a tad on the exercises to tone the buttal region. My reasoning was that almost all runners you see have glorious derri�res, and I figured that they probably get that through the mechanics of running.

World class runners also have terrifically muscled cores, their backs and abdominals ripple with muscles. That doesn't come naturally, you have to work at that. I'm never, ever going to be anything but a pitiful runner, but I figured that pushing my body closer to the kind great runners have couldn't hurt. I decided I could drop squats and lunges in favour of more back and abdominal work.

Today I was in the mirrored stretch room doing my post-run cool down and stretches. While I was doing some hamstring stuff I happened to catch a glimpse of my derri�re. Where once there were buns there is now what can be most politely termed a shelf, or, for those of you with a more geological turn of mind, The Marn Mesa.

Buttus flattus. Pancake ass. Whatever technical term you want to use, I have a raging case of it. You can well imagine my horror, nay my anguish at this unforeseen turn of events.

See, the spousal unit is a leg man. This is a polite way of saying he is a caboose connoisseur, devotee of the derri�re, a gluteus maximus gourmet. Sure, you have your tripods who go ga-ga over a head of long blonde hair, others who salivate at the sight of bounteous mammarian goodness, but the guy I married has always but always been a .:cough:. leg .:cough:. man.

Mostly I'm doing this running and fitness deal because that fortunately benign lump I had in my breast the year I turned 50 was a wake-up call to me. My original manufacture's warranty seems to have expired. It appears to be up to me now to do some preventive maintenance, to take the best care of my bod I can.

But you can't hang around in a gym and not become somewhat critical about your body. Most people who are at a gym are there because they want to tone or sculpt their bodies.

Women, especially, spend a fair bit of time at the gym talking about body issues. Maybe I'm more aware of it this week because we're starting to get the first influx of new female members at my gym since the New Year's Resolution members--this would be the women getting ready for that most brutal of all times of year, swimsuit season.

Fortunately, we skinny dip up here in our pond, so swimsuits aren't an issue.

Oh yes, this is the type of clear-headed logic that has made me the woman I am.

It's odd, the body bits I find myself obsessing focussing on. I find myself fuming over my kimono arms because to me they say, "Next stop, nursing home"--the young girls at my gym don't have batwing upper arms. It's stupid to feel that way about my arms, but I do.

I fret over my buttal region because, well, tripods are so visual and this is the body bit the spousal unit loves. I know this is stupid, too, on one level -- in theory you love the person, not the packaging -- but we've been a couple well over 30 years now and he's in his 50's now and ... and ... and ...

As I see it, he's in prime mid-life crisis territory now and how far can we actually be from either a red convertible or a trophy wife?

Oh. Wait. You have to have money to have a trophy wife.

Whew.

Guess that just leaves the convertible, eh?

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 222.83 miles.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers