Thanks to some fat cells that apparently have no interest in shrinking…and chocolate that can’t seem to stop finding my mouth…last week I decided to increase my runs from three miles to five.

Since the kids have been out of school, I have been running on my treadmill. I plug along as they sit in the other room reading, watching TV, or playing video games. Usually they are facing me, and mocking me with their cute, little, non-fat, perfect, flawless, skinny, legs and arms. Oh sorry…I drifted there for a minute.

During my second day of this extended work-out, when I had just finished mile four and was feeling awfully proud of myself, I looked into the living room and saw my daughter watching me. I smiled at her, then morphed into Rocky Balboa, pumped my fist in the air and said, “Aren’t I doing a good job? I am so proud of myself.”

Instead of mocking me, she flat-out slammed me when she smiled back and said, “Mom. Your face is purple.”

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I am not a vain person. Sure, I try to keep fine lines from turning into deep trenches, and I color my hair. And, like any woman, I enjoy being pampered with an occasional pedicure. But, it’s not unusual for me to run out of the house in the morning with a baseball cap on, and nothing on my face but the wrinkles left there from my pillowcase.

When my daughter sees me looking this way, and she knows I’m on my way to the store, she’ll say, “You know you’re going to see someone you know, because you don’t have any makeup on”. She’s often right, but I normally don’t care.

Recently, I was buying flowers at a local nursery with my six year old son in tow, when he struck up conversations with various people in the check-out line. As long as he doesn’t start touching strangers, or telling folks they resemble sea creatures, I’m fine with him practicing his speaking skills.

One of the people he talked to was an older woman waiting directly in front of us.

I noticed that her appearance was much like mine. We were both in shorts and t-shirts, with dirty tennis shoes on our feet. Martha Stewart’s got nothing on my gardening attire.

But, the similarities ended with our clothing and lack of mascara, because she was much older than I was. Or, so I thought.

Suddenly, she turned to me and said, “Hey! I know you! We went to high school together! Remember? Remember me?”

I did remember her. I managed to utter something…something I’m sure sounded like a small yelp, because all I could really do was wonder if I looked like she did. No! I couldn’t! She was older than me. A whole year older.

We spoke for a few minutes…mostly about our mutual friend Julie, who I haven’t seen in years, but with whom she has stayed in contact. As she left the store she said, “I’ll tell Julie you said hello.”

The thing I said about not being vain? Well, so much for that…because as she continued to her car I yelled, “Don’t tell her what I looked like!”

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Last night, I attended a Police concert. No Mom, not actual law enforcement personnel, but The Police…as in the band with a guy named Sting.

Can anyone tell me what happened to the young fellas who once danced around on MTV? Because those guys are gone. Someone went and replaced them with three well-over-middle-aged men.

And, you know what else happened? The audience went and got old too. The binocular rental booth was hopping, and if I had a dollar for every gray hair I saw, my family would be sitting pretty for generations to come. If I was a geriatric physician, I would have been handing out business cards.

What’s really sad about the whole thing, is that it means I’m aging as well. For crying out loud, I walked to the show with orthotics in my shoes, and at one point I almost had to stop and stretch. Darn youngsters designing those long city blocks.

But, as long as those boys keep playing, I’ll continue to wear my arch supports and dance…okay, sit.

“Honey, break out the bifocals…Def Leppard’s coming to town.”

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When I was a kid I wanted to be a surgeon. I thought the inner workings of the human body were fascinating and couldn’t get enough of those PBS shows that brought operating tables into my family room. When they would hint at graphic images ahead and everyone else would turn away, I would glue myself to the screen.

Turns out, though, that you actually have to be a pretty good student if you choose that line of work. My elementary school report cards, which were all spotted with remarks like, “shares with her neighbors” and “doesn’t stay on task”, weren’t going to get me into medical school. It seems I was more suited to be a gossip columnist.

But as a parent, I have a chance to right what I did wrong. I have made it clear to my third-grade daughter that she needs to apply herself now, if she wants to be successful later.

We were recently discussing this and I asked her, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

She shrugged.

Given her love of animals and her near obsession with dogs, I suggested she should become a veterinarian.

She shook her head and said, “I don’t want to be a veterinarian! They can’t eat meat!“

Apparently, someone wasn’t staying on task during health and nutrition class.

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