"God bless Mommy, and Daddy, and running shoes!"

"Mom, I'm out of here!" I yell over my shoulder as I reach for my purse, my keys, pat the cat on the head, then head for the door. I'm wearing a t-shirt that I stole from my mother, that I'm waiting for her to notice that I stole. The sleeves of it are rolled up, and tucked underneathe my bra straps. My , very short, black shorts are riding up a little further than I want them too. I've got new Newbalance running shoes on my feet. I'm wearing those stupid socks that only go back your ankle, and my hair that I spent so much time on that morning, is tossed up into a messy ponytail. I've got my Mp3 Player in hand, and, ironically enough, a Rocket Popsicle in the other hand.

"What?" My mother yells from her perch in her brown chair.

The door slams.

I'm on my way into town for a jog.

I always thought that jogging was a little stupid. The people that did it never looked as though they were having any fun. They had beads of sweat soaking down onto their worn-out, baggy t-shirts, and their expressions said anything but "please, stop, chat with me, look at me, I'm having the time of my life". In fact, they kind of looked as though they were being chased by lions, or that they personally enjoyed torturing themselves.

But on my usual route of walking (my first love, my first involvement in excercise) through my small town, I took a detour behind my old high school. I saw a long stretch of grey road, free from bends and winds, and I decided to go for it. I jogged from my high school down to my family's business, where my brother looked at me as though I had lost my marbles, and was being chased by a group of hooligans. Afterall, his sister, doesn't run, there must be some band of perverts waving around wooden sticks with flames on the ends saying my shorts are too tight, or something to that affect.

The day following my little run/walk, I felt as though my legs were going to fall off. Each one had a kind of pain that seemed to throb whenever I did anything that involved any muscle in my body. My abdominal muslces ached, and my mother had threated to kill me twice becaus I was complaining of the pain so much.

That was three weeks ago. Now that run that I do is so easy. The pain that I have is gone, and my mother wonders if she should also purchase an MP3 Player. She also wants Facenose Book...she's hip!

I never dreamed that I'd be a jogger. In high school I was anything but an athlete. I had the type of care towards being an athlete that I do about taking care of my CDs, and let me tell you, my country music is piled up beside another pile of CD cases. The only Cds that don't skip are my mother's that I've borrowed, and my new ones...but give it time!

But, I ditched my old history, for making a new one. After four months of walking my buns on the treadmill at 4 miles per hour, and then doing the same when I returned home from college, I decided that I'd give jogging a try.

It wasn't until the beginners pain of running was gone, I found a new anti-persperent, and some good tunes that I realized exactly how much I was really enjoying myself out there on the silver roads of my town. In the past three weeks, I've only missed two nights of running. I ran tonight, I'll run tomorrow, and the next, and probably the next. I'll also probably trip and land flat on my face.

When I find myself just wanting to sort out my thoughts, when I want to just be alone, when I just want to listen to music, when I'm frustrated by a guy in my life, the restrictions of moving home, missing my best friends, life in general, or even my cat, I find myself tying up my laces and roaming my "up to ya-ya" legs along the streets of my hometown. When I find myself experiencing the angst of being twenty, the hormones of being woman, or even the traits that make me, me, I strap on my shoes and take to the streets. Running has become a "stressbuster", a way to help me figure out myself, my thoughts, my feelings. Running has become my excercise, my drug of choice...and judging by the way I threw back six Vex Vodka coolers last weekend, I'm glad I've chosen running!

The streets that I run on don't care whether or not the roots of my natural brown hair are stretching through the threads of hi-lited blonde. The streets don't care if my mascara is smudged, my eyeliner isn't perfect (one eye bigger than the other), and the streets certainly don't care if I look good, or if I look bad. The streets don't pay attention to what brand my t-shirt is, or how short my shorts are. The streets don't judge my efforts at life, and the way I behave. The streets don't care if I like them or hate them...they just let me walk and run all over them!

God bless my legs, my socks, my anti-persperint, but most importantly, my running shoes.