First of all, I would like to thank God for creating bodies and physical activities. I could not have done this without you.

I need to thank my dear mother, first and foremost for giving birth to me, and secondly, for recently gifting me with some high-quality wicking shirts and shorts. It made this entire morning so much more enjoyable.

Anna, at Road Runner Sports, for fitting me with my new Adidas, and convincing me that the Super Feet insoles really are worth it. You’re the best!

Thank you to the pouring rain and mud, because no one wants to be the kid with the blindingly neon white shoes.

I can’t forget the Olmsted brothers, who had the original vision for designing Seattle city parks such as Green Lake.

My legs, my legs! I know that I had said such cruel things to you and about you in the past, and yet you remain loyal and reliable. I do not deserve you.

And finally, to the endorphines. You kicked in around mile 2, and stretched the 2.8 goal into a respectable 3.5, therefore convincing me that even after several months of hiatus, I’VE STILL GOT IT!

Last week, I went shopping for new running shoes. As I have mentioned before, I hate shoe shopping with the fire of a thousand suns. I have the hardest time finding shoes that fit well, that are comfortable, and that don’t look like the white Reeboks my grandma wears to “the club.” So I decided to enlist the help of an afro’d salesman in the New Balance store, who promptly offered to measure my feet and “hook me up” with a sweet new pair of kicks.

After placing my feet in weird metal contraptions and adjusting levers, and then having me stand up, then wiggle my toes, then sit down again, the salesman called over his manager. They stood a few feet away, speaking in hushed tones, and covertly stealing glances back at me. Finally, he returned with the news: “Miss, it seems that your left foot is a size 8 and your right foot is a size 9.”

[collective gasp from the blog readers]

An entire size of difference! No wonder I have such issues with shoes! I asked him why this is, and he said that the arch on my right foot has fallen. “Ew,” said I.

Our feet were not meant to be shove into shoes. We were created to walk barefoot, and to have the earth adjust and mold to the natural shape of our feet. Instead, we have created flat-bottomed or high-heeled shoes that our feet try to adapt to, causing arches to fall and blisters to form and all-around bitchy attitudes from girls like me.

Speaking of the natural way of things, Bryan and Stephanie took me to the Ballard Farmer’s Market yesterday morning in order to teach me about eating conscientiously. They’re good at it. They are organic, fair-trade, grass-fed, free-range kind of people – and you know what? I think they’re onto something.

I really love farmers markets, and Stephanie put words to it: “Coming here is like going to church – everyone’s fellowshipping and here for common values. And there’s music!” :) People are walking around with dogs and babies, and everyone is excited about sampling the cheese and chocolate and different honeys and breads. The food has enormous flavor, making me think that I could be satisfied with so much less. I would not need to sit down with a block of Kroger cheddar – I could have a little wedge of herb gouda, and it would taste delectable enough to fulfill me.

People who shop at farmers markets, where the produce is local and normally a product of sustainable process, eat only what is in season at the time. There are no pesticide-ridden strawberries being flown in from Chile in the deep mid-winter; certain fruits are only available in the late spring and early summer. And this is the way that things were created; the earth and the seasons have a rhythm, and maybe we are meant to live in accordance with this pattern.

I guess I accept the fact that I have to wear shoes. But yesterday, I just might have been converted to the organic side. The next thing you know, I’ll be concerned about global warming (wait – already am), voting democrat (wait – already did), and grocery shopping with a canvas sack (a gift from the UPC Gospel Choir).

Public-health agencies are currently debating whether the state of Washington should ban the use of all artificial trans-fats in restaurants. Linked to stroke and heart disease, this ingredient is used in all-things-fried, as well as numerous cookies, crackers, oils, and shortenings. Acknowledging the fact that trans-fats are bad for you, this subject begs the question: is the government meddling a bit too much in our personal affairs? Does the government have the right to tell me what I can and cannot consume?

This reminds me of when I was attending Seattle Pacific University, and before I could step foot in the dorms, I had to sign a contract saying that as long as I was a student, I would 1) not smoke, 2) not drink alcohol (even if I was 21, even if it was off-campus, even if I was an ADULT LEARNER), and 3) not have sex outside of marriage. Now, I was a pretty straight-and-narrow type of girl – a goodie-goodie, if you will – and so these were not unreasonable expectations to place on me. (Well, that’s only partly true – I completely disregarded the alcohol rule.) But I remember being absolutely outraged at the fact that I was required to sign a contract. Shouldn’t those be decisions that I make for myself because of my own personal values, rather than because of an outside force imposing them upon me?

Trans-fats are bad. I’m not enough of a scientist to comprehend how massively bad they actually are, but I believe that they are a completely legitimate health concern. But shouldn’t I have the freedom to decide how much or how little I want to consume? Do we really need to ban them?

Because believe me, if mozarella sticks are wrong, then I’m sorry, I just don’t want to be right.