Nosey Question

Have you ever gotten a feeling like the fates came around with a silver platter of toast points covered with warm brie, and you were too tired or distracted or some stupid thing to accept one?

While exiting Macy's the other evening, I had two strips of paper that you spray perfume on, one in each hand. The perfumes were Issey Miyake and Dolce & Gabbana Blue something. I was sniffing each strip alternately as I walked out of the store, in my own little universe. Out of the blue, a 20-something kid wearing one of those hooded sweatshirts that northern California surfers favor - the ones that looks like they were made from a nubby blanket - looked up from his iThingie long enough to offer, "Do you need a second opinion on that?" pause, smile a little, and keep on walking.

You see my allegory here. Or metaphor - whichever. The offer to help was the brie-covered toast point. I'm still not positive what prevented me from saying, "Sure, what's your vote?" Surprise, yes, but throw in preoccupation and some long day lag, and boom, you're wondering where your hors d'oeuvre went.

Bring It

My new infatuation's open arms beckoned as I, sweaty and smiling, ran to its embrace. Sunlight fell like confetti through the eucalyptus, dusting my hair, kissing my upturned face. At this exquisitely turned arc in the journey, the flick between sojourn and realization, I raised my hands in thanks to the fair skies, sweet communion just at fingertips' end. Acting cool would have been effort wasted. We knew why I was there.

"Come on, Sarah!" ripped a lady watching from the curb, "bring it!" A goulash of permed hair spilled over her pink visor. The woman in the blue-and-faux lace tank top I'd been hopscotching since mile five—Sarah with the vocal fan, I presumed—zipped around me and sprinted to the finish line's embrace, a second ahead of me. Damn, she definitely brought it. Faster and in a cuter top.

But hey, I brought it, too—early morning alarm clocks and miles of iTunes, brought the crazy, brought the conviction that I would finish this humdinger and finish it strong. I didn't feel elation while crossing the finish line, because that was inevitable. But I did think to myself, "This isn't the finish. It's only the beginning."

Running the Numbers

When runners aren't obsessing over their own optimum heart rates, BMIs, miles per week, kcals, and kilowatts, they love to pore over the race stats: splits, pace, time back, time forward, time sideways. They consult big geeky watches as if they were oracles during events, immediately after times are posted they hop on their calculators and average stuff, just for the buzz.

But now I get the fascination. I have one adorable little set of numbers in my roster, and I turn to that web page so often I've gotten it grubby. Want to hear the good parts? Chip time: 2.02; clock time: age group finish: 31 out of 181; overall finish, 1,081 out of 6,096; hey, where you going? It's just getting good: pace: 9:22; age-grade: 62.4%, which I kind of don't understand but I know it's pretty good for a first-timer.

Well, anyway . . .

A neighbor and fellow runner gave me a training log, so now I can start crunching my numbers on a daily basis. Do I know how to have a good time, or what?

The Foundation of Courage

Every woman has an article of clothing or jewelry that makes her feel empowered. When my friend Lisa wears her vintage Fiorucci jeans with the distressed red belt, you'll take what she gives you and you'll like it. Steph rocks a sterling collar-type necklace when it's time to open a subliminal can of whoop-ass, and a former co-worker, Chris, went so far as to give her sartorial armor a name, calling a smashing body-skimming royal purple sheath her "results" dress, because when she wore it, sister, you better believe she got 'em.

Sometimes the bolstering comes from a more intimate piece of apparel; a cami that channels the sultry and dangerous Mata Hari, or a bra that makes you feel like Tina Fey's brain in, well, Tina Fey's body. My sure-fire, rock star, don't-stand-next-to-my-fire-or-you'll-get-burned item is a pair of undies printed with little purple scorpions, edged in purple lace. They were fished out of a sale bin at The Lingerie Shoppe near where I work, but their markdown status in no way diminishes their juju. Wearing them, I am Mother Nature's go-to gal - a force in Scorpio underpants.

Now get outta my way while I start on that novel . . .