Thing One: Spending all this time outside might give a normal person a healthy tan, but I am not a normal person. I am pasty, and don’t tan. As such, I slather on sunscreen, which is only marginally effective because it always comes off when I sweat. The result isn’t so much being tan as “being vaguely pink in colour and covered in freckles.”

Lohantastic

You can kind of tell from this picture — note how portions of my face are just patchworks of freckles. How am I not a redhead?

Thing Two: I think this whole jogging thing is actually resulting in weight loss. What? I know. I’m not sure, I don’t own a scale, but I appear to be somewhat more muscular and maybe slightly less large-assed than I was a while ago. For instance, when I flex my arm, you can see the vague outline of a muscle. But THEN I get all weird about body image — like basically every woman ever — I started wanting to lose weight because I am probably a bit heavier than is healthy and my film studies student lifestyle is ridiculously sedentary, but a big part of me also just wants to be thin because I think I would be prettier with a smaller ass. I know this is totally irrational, that our cultural beauty standards are so unrealistic that even the people who are setting them aren’t good enough, I know that there is actually nothing wrong with me, but at the very same time as I think those thoughts, I wish that my stomach was flatter, that my hips were smaller, that I was better-proportioned. That is fucked up. Like, I look at the array of entertainment and “women’s” magazines that are touting various diet secrets of various celebrities — including two separate but nearly identical covers for Tyra Banks — and I’m all “and you know next month they are going to be ‘Nicole Ritchie still looks anorexic’ — they sure want women to feel insecure and guilty and buy things to fix those feelings,” but a part of me still also wants to look more like those women. I don’t understand how I can both not buy in and buy into something at the same time. Culture is weird.

Thing Three: My mom sent me this fancy running watch so you can set your times, so you can set it for how long you want to run before you take a walk break. It is amazing, and a much better task master than me saying, “okay, I will run for all of this song and for two minutes into the next song,” and constantly having to check the song times on my iPod.