I am not going to tell you that I jogged today, my first non-walking workout since, oh, sometime around July.
I am not going to tell you that I'm eating a virtuous, high-protein, post-workout snack of vanilla-flavored non-fat Greek yogurt with a medley of berries sprinkled in, all of which I have placed in one of those giant cappuccino mugs like the ones everyone drank from on "Friends."
I am not going to post a picture of said healthful snack here.
I am not going to tell you how lovely it was today, jogging (well, OK, jogwalking) through the winter-barren woods around Lake Accotink near my home, under a maybe-there-will-be-snow sky, crunching over rocks and gravel and mud and a blanket of dead brown leaves, passing the marina with its mini beach and merry-go-round, and the train bridge over which two trains crossed during my 55 minutes on the trail.
I'm not going to tell you that today was my first time running (or even walking) the entire ~4.5-mile loop alone, without my boyfriend or anyone else to guide or spur me along.
Nor will I tell you that forcing myself to dust off my old exercise clothes of yore, put them on, go out the door, and run was more of a metaphor than a health thing, more a symbol of my commitment to momentum and forward/upward motion than anything else. Although, OK, I do have some slinky club dresses and skinny jeans that I would like to fit into again without feeling as if I'm wearing a sausage skin.
I won't tell you any of this even though it's all true, because my obstinately ironic little '90s soul would never allow something so earnest, so Hallmark-card, so "Dr. Phil" or self-help book. I mean, hello, I have already quoted the Dalai Lama on here. I blew my wad with that one.
But I will tell you that things are changing for the better, and that making myself report my progress -- good and bad -- on this blog is helping a lot, so I'm going to keep doing it.