March Madness, and I do NOT mean basketball!

Not that I have anything against basketball. But it's a special kind of madness that grips me every spring, as soon as the mercury hits 70, which it did here last weekend.

I imagine myself as a runner.

This has been going on for years. Every March it gets warm and I start thinking "shorts." And then "bathing suit" and then "oh, &#*@ !"

And then I put on my cross-trainers and go running. Or at least that's what I call it. SOME people would call it jogging. Or very fast walking. Or stumbling.

But I have this vivid image in mind: me and my graceful, toned legs gliding down the road. They are beautiful, with lots of muscle tone and a significant lack of cellulite. In other words, the legs that I had back when I was 18 and convinced that I was very fat, when in reality I was a size 5. Now I am older, wiser, more confident and not nearly as hard on myself. Size 5 is a distant memory. Size 10 would be great. Better than great. If I could get into my size 10 jeans, I'd throw a party for the entire town.

So I grab the dog's leash. ("Oh, great, she thinks, tail wagging, a walk!!!!!) Together, we glide down my driveway and hit the road. I hope none of my neighbors are looking out the window.

I jog. I walk. I jog again. I gasp. My dog likes the jogging part best. She is hardly breaking a trot. She wonders why we can't go faster. She likes to run. I do not. But I do it anyway, because it's hands-down the best way to drop a few pounds quickly, without giving up necessities like chocolate. I ignore the fact that every year I do this, lose a couple pounds, then put them right back on when I decide running is a sport for my husband and other crazy people.

Twenty minutes later, I'm back in the house, gasping. I've covered about a mile and a half. I'm sure I look like heck, or someplace even hotter. But I feel really good about myself.

Maybe this year I'll stick with it. But I wouldn't put any money on it.

Until next Friday...

Joy Nash
www.joynash.com