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Oh crap! Where’s Vanessa? About 11 km into yesterday’s run, my brain set off into panic mode. I’d seen Vanessa at the start of the run, I had even said hi to her as she exited her car, but at 11 km, she was was nowhere to be found. My head was spinning. Did we forget her at the washroom stop? Did she get lost in the seemingly never-ending cornfields? Did she turn around? Did she collapse from kilometre overload at such an early hour? Where was she? Turns out, there was no need to panic. Vanessa was safe and sound with the speedy group up ahead (far ahead!) and my brain, mushy brain, I like to call it, was just a little shaken up, so much so that I had completely forgotten. And so, I was wondering last night if there’s such a thing as shaken adult syndrome, kind […]

Hey! So check out these numbers: 6.9, 6.5, 6.2, 6.4, 7.5, 6.9, 6.4, 6.8, 6.1, 6.4, 6.1, 6.6, 6.6… For most of you, they probably don’t mean a thing, but for diabetics, like me, they’re great news, near perfect in fact. These numbers are my blood sugar readings for the last two days. And as my endocrinologist once told me, these are numbers to grow old with. BG perfection really shouldn’t be all that surprising, given that I lead a pretty healthy lifestyle. Yes, I enjoy my chocolate, ice cream and various baked goods, but I also offset that with a LOT of exercise, so it balances out. But the thing is, for years I was a yo-yo diabetic, trying to combat low blood sugars and high blood sugars all the time. And even though it’s been like six years since I turned my lifestyle around and really took control

For all you virginal eyes out there, I recommend you close them now. Because today, and quite possibly all the days forward, I stick my middle finger up in the face of strength training. That’s right, that obscene gesture is pointed right at you weights, and at you you stinky, steroid-loving gym, and you too you stupid, rusty circuit! Oh yeah, there’s a rant a brewing. I know that strength training is supposed to be good for me, at least that’s what everyone’s been telling me. It’s supposed to improve my strength and my endurance and my speed. And so even before I started on this whole marathon  kick, I was trying to get a regular strength-training regime in place. I didn’t want to do much, because I really didn’t think the whole she-man-muscle-woman look would suit me all that well, and because I was told I didn’t have to

My name is Princess of Pavement, my sneakers kick the streets ass, and my running fashion rules the alleyways, but I have a confession. I am a hypochondriac. A major hypochondriac. Brain tumour, thought I had one. Skin cancer, that too. Lime disease, found a tick on me once. Arthritis, been there. Stroke, there too. But probably the most amusing one of all (not so much for me, but for everyone else around me) I thought I was going to have to get my hands amputated because of Raynaud’s syndrome! My hands were turning blue, like this sickly grey blue, and I was totally freaking out, so I went to my doctor (who, for the most part, is useless) and he told me I had Raynaud’s. And I was like uh what, what’s that? And he told me to Google it. He actually told ME – the second biggest hypochondriac

It was almost one year ago, on Sept. 12, 2009, that my newly minted husband presented me with a small, turquoise box that had a perfectly wrapped white ribbon around it. And while I didn’t know exactly what was inside the box, I sure as heck did know where that box came from. How could I not? Isn’t it every girl’s dream to get a ‘Tiffany blue’ box from Tiffany’s? It was about 3 a.m., all our guests had gone home, my wedding gown was still on the verge of cutting off my oxygen, and my mouth was agape. I couldn’t get that box open fast enough. Mario, with an ‘I did good’ smile on his face, told me every girl should have something from Tiffany’s. (Yep, that’s my husband!) My sister agreed – whole heartedly. For 41 years, or at least as long as she can remember, Jules has wanted