Two Miles is More Than Zero Miles

Yesterday afternoon I got the call informing me that my wedding dress had arrived at the bridal shop. It was all the prompting I needed to suit up in my new workout gear and hit the gym.

Ladies, if you think you have a hard time finding clothes that fit just right, just wait until it's time to go wedding dress shopping. At bridal shops, all of your body image issues will be laid out before you, with a numerical value assigned to each.

For me, that played out in the form of some disproportionate measurements when I ordered the dress this past fall: size 2 bust, size 6–8 hips, size 8–10 waist. (Gap.com tells me my thigh is a size 2 - just for another data point.) Not news to me, but it was still a bit deflating to see on paper. Knowing the hell I go through trying to find jeans that fit this frame, I have nothing but dread for the seven rounds of alterations I'm undoubtedly in for with this dress.

In an effort to control as much as I can of my own destiny, it's time to get back into the habit of regular gym-going. I'm telling myself that the fact that I went on December 29 instead of waiting until January 1 means it's not a New Year's resolution but rather simply a year-round good habit.

It's a drop in the bucket, but a two-mile jog is better than nothing, and it's enough to give me that general feeling of put-together-ness that's really the main reason I work out.

What's My Name?

I believe any self-respecting animal, when brought into a household, will see that it earns itself at least two to three serviceable nicknames.

That's just a starting point. Additional nicknames can be dispensed according to the animal's propensity for mischief and hijinks.

The Great Sage James Lipton Speaks

Can we just retire the word "sexting" and all media coverage thereof?

This morning, the top headline on IndyStar.com read "Poll: Sexting common among young people / Teens do not think about the consequences of sharing racy images, experts say." Earlier this week, the Today Show ran yet another segment on the dangers of "sexting," designed to frighten mothers everywhere with the tale of a teen who committed suicide after her racy photos were exposed to peers. Or something. I'll admit, I left the room when I saw her mother sitting on the couch with Meredith Vieira.

A tragic story, no doubt, but dirty pictures don't actually kill anyone. To draw a direct line between hitting "send" and ending one's life is a gross oversimplification of the complex tragedy of teen suicide.