I don't read those lame celebrity gossip magazines. But every once and a while one just falls open on my lap and in the process of closing/removing the "literature" I accidentally catch a glance of a page...or two...or the whole thing.

This picture of Jack Nicholson seems at first repulsive, but I found myself drawn to it.

I couldn't look away. I just stared and stared. I don't know what it is, there's just something about him that makes me feel this strong but unnameable connection.

Oh Jack, you and I are kindred spirits. Your boat and wealth and fame complete me.

My friend Victoria called me up yesterday wanting to go to the gym. After quickly talking her out of that, we agreed to meet up to "fast walk" the Back Cove. Which we did, kind of. We had the "walk" part down.

I won't even crack jokes about really, really wanting to run - but darn that bum leg.

It was a conscience restraint. My group run is tonight and if I've learned nothing else, it's to not overdo it.

Yes, yes. Laugh all you want. But it's a system that works for me. Two days in a row just doesn't work - if I ran yesterday I'd struggle today. And I don't want to struggle in front of the group (remember the "not-wanting-to-look-like-an-idiot" discussion we had at the beginning of this training?

Another lesson I learned? Even a saunter around Back Cove deserves a meaty reward.

Okay, okay - enough with the chicken! Back to the running tonight.

People don't always have the best decision-making abilities. That thing people call "will power"...well, I never got an ounce of it.

I'm not good at telling myself "No," and the slightest reference to food makes me hungry.

At the office, for example, a colleague might mention that he's having computer trouble, which is a problem. Having a problem makes me think of how people, if they're overly optimistic or a little passive, refer to a problem as being "in a pickle" (which makes me laugh, because "pickle" is a far cry from the language I use). And then of course the pickle makes me think of a sandwich - not just any sandwich but a chicken salad sandwich. And you can't eat a sandwich without chips - preferably Fritos - and hot damn I have $5.00 in my wallet right now.

But sometimes, even though it seems the world practically led me to my chicken salad sandwich destiny, a voice in my head reprimands me for not buying carrots instead.

And sometimes, God even intervenes, knocking the sandwich clear out of my hand.

There was nothing salvageable. Within 2 minutes I experienced every step in the grieving process, and with a tear in my eye I laid the destroyed mess to rest in a trash receptacle.

So long, good friend.

I had no choice really. I was forced despite my better judgment. I wanted to run - should have run - but I didn't.

I missed the group run for the first time yesterday - though I swear I had good reason. I was not out drinking or stealing coasters from local restaurants. I wasn't napping or getting up close and personal with a fried bologna sandwich.

No, all those things I love were left undone this week (okay, maybe I had a couple drinks). It's life - it gets busy. But still I feel guilty.

Add to that the fact that my couch (you remember Cocoa Microfiber, Jr. don't you?) now suddenly feels neglected and is no longer speaking to me.

Feeling overwrought this morning on my way to work, I decided to assuage my inner pain with the most splendid of all caffeinated drinks: the Dunkin' Donuts Turbo Ice.

Criticize the chain coffee and donut shops if you must, but I swear to you there is no heaven without a Turbo in it.

So I step to the counter.

Guy working: "What can I get you?"

Me: "A large Turbo Ice, please, with cream and sugar and a shot of caramel [just for fun]."

Guy working makes a quick - but obvious - face of disgust.

I know that face. It's the face I get when I, for example, tell people I can't eat baklava because it reminds me of cadaver skin (not that I really know what cadaver skin is like).

When I call the guy out on the face he says people are always so serious and he's just making "nice faces."

Sure. Whatever.

Tell me my pants make me look fat - tell me I don't know how to dress myself - tell me I'll never be able to run a 10K. But please, don't insult my Turbo.

Oh how quickly the enthusiasm wanes. I was on-target this weekend - doing a 3-mile training run on Saturday (yes, by choice) and a bike ride on Sunday (despite a well-enjoyed Cinco de Mayo the night before). I figured, after three weeks of really keeping putting in the effort, I was in the clear.

People always claim that getting started is half the battle. I disagree.

I've been riding my laurels since Sunday.

This rut is totally unexplainable, too. I've been doing everything right.

Through this training process I've learned that hydration is key during physical exertion - so I'm always drinking.

I've even been trying new energy drinks to really push me to the limit.

I pay close attention to my food intake, focusing on a protein-rich, carb-light diet.

I even make it a point to get outside throughout the day to take in the sun and the air - how invigorating!

Seriously, what more can I possibly do?

Inspiration is a wonderful thing - and nothing inspires like 50-degree air temps and the presence of the sun. Even I couldn't talk myself out of jogging the bike trail to Bug Light this weekend. I mean - it felt like spring. Spring!

With two slices of cinnamon toast in my belly (with real sugar for extra energy) I attempted the (approximately) 3-mile (round trip) trail on my own. Sure, 7 minutes running/2 minutes walking is easy to maintain when running in a group. The fear of public ridicule is an excellent motivator.

But it's just me - and I let myself cheat all the time ("Shannon, what's that over there?" "Where?" And down goes a tater tot). I'm not going to lie - it was a struggle, and I threw a couple extra one-minute walks in the mix when all the saliva disappeared from my mouth. But I kept myself honest the whole way through - I'm proud of myself, and so am I.

Of course, by the end I was roasting and it became clear that pants were just too much to wear. Not a big deal, seeing as I have running shorts from last year that were just the right length to a) not make me self-conscious when stretching, and b) not ride up (forcing the wearing to continually yank the inside seam down while running, which I must say is not conducive to proper form).

But alas, those splendid shorts have become too small for me (or I too big for them)! I'm not ready for shorts yet - I need a few more weeks of running before I can fit back into my running shorts.

Ah! The irony!

Please warm weather - come slowly!