Huff…puff…water!…need…water!…run…jog…dying…sprint…huff…puff…sweat…may vomit…

Look down at fitness machine on which running, see that it reads:

“Discontinue use of machine if dizzy, faint or exhausted.”

* * *

The gym.  The perfect setting to meet potential mates.  I mean, the place exudes physicality and sex and…

…entire shirts dripping with sweat (how is that possible?) and fatty bouncing body parts and caveman-like grunts and some sour smell that appears to be the results of everyone’s collective effort.

Ew.

Anyway, maybe I’ll just get fit. 

* * *

Mental note: Avoid the gym on the first Saturday after New Year’s.  Do you REALLY need to hog the whole mat for your yoga poses? 

* * *

No, not me, I’m not listening to Air Supply on my iPod.

* * *

Overheard while hoisting eight-pounders over my head: “Dude, what are you pressing, 250?”

* * *

How is it that yesterday, when I had the same exact body but lounged around dipping chips into sour cream, my body was repugnant and jiggly, when today, while I’m lifting and running and stretching it all over the place, it suddenly looks fit and buff?  I like how that works.  Feel good, look good.  Maybe I’ll try this again sometime.

Really, what kind of company would try to make a buck off someone’s singlehood? Read all about it in my latest Her Nashville column.

In the mood for some good old-fashioned radio…some new tunes.  I wonder what’s on?  Taylor Swift. Turn station. Taylor Swift. Turn station. Surprise…Taylor Swift. Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Anyway, her new song “Fifteen” is interesting. Initially it seems like a tune I might have liked when I was…oh, 15. Then she does what she’s good at, why she’s sold more albums than the Beatles this year, and really gets me with that nostalgia trick of hers…

Taking me back to when I was 15, too. I try really hard sometimes to feel 15 again. Try to remember how I felt when I was walking down the hall after the basketball game in my cheerleading uniform and my crush, the first-chair trumpet player from the pep band, walked up beside me and put his arm around me (chills, delicious chills) and we continued down the hall as one and I was grateful I was chewing my signature Big Red gum, he was so close, and I wondered what it might be like to…then I flipped away from him into the cheerleaders’ changing room to tell the other cheerleaders that He Put His Arm Around Me.

Fifteen. When the requited crush, not boring old love, was the goal. As single chicks, we’re desperately searching for love, for babies, for happily-ever-afters, for shared broccoli casseroles on Sunday evenings washed down with comfy silence. But I wouldn’t mind starting with a crush. Someone to Internet-stalk late into the night, someone to picture when I wake up at 4 a.m. and hear creepy thumps coming from the kitchen, someone to inspire me to wear a tank top instead of a T-shirt at the gym in case I run into him, someone for whom I just know this song, and this one, too, and this one (the one we’ll play at our wedding), was written.

Awk…Taylor, you got me again.  Must put down these notebooks doodles and pay my bills.

Check out my answer to this important question in my latest Her Nashville column.