I have in my possession a very inexpensive mp3 player. Very inexpensive...so much so that one might call it cheap and in need of replacement. It is but a few months old, but I wanted to first verify that I would actually use it before looking into the purchase of one with bells and whistles and probably the letters i-P-O-D labeled upon the front panel.

See, I was a television-watcher on the treadmill during days past. The Food Network never had a problem distracting me from the seeming cruelty I sought to inflict upon my knees, hips and toes. Particularly my toes. I'm fearful I'm going to lose a toenail at present, which is probably more information than you want to know...but it is painted a lovely posy-pink to camouflage the ugly purple-black of the underlying bruise. In any event, I could ignore my willpower's efforts toward debilitation as long as I knew Rachel Ray would once again succeed in making a whole meal, start to finish, in just thirty minutes.

However, as of late, Rachel hasn't done it for me. Maybe it's as Nick advised just the other day...she lost her interest factor for him, you see, once she got married...Rachel Ray's off the available list, fellas...time to start collecting takeout menus for the long hall.

So, it is with the gentle chords of Norah Jones, David Gray, and James Blunt that I've taken to running to music instead of food fantasies. I'm sure this seems silly. Norah, David, and James are softer choices...Nick is always suggesting a beat-heavy album for my running pleasure. I don't need the tunes for a rhythm...that's what the OCD is for.

Even so, I changed 'er up this morning...it was time. I painted the playlist with a Sheryl Crow basecoat and a Melissa Etheridge glaze. This is a good sign, a very good sign. I'm in the mood for happy and alive, introspective and quiet having salved me long enough. My heart is healing.