Usually I get to the point where I’m peeling off a bloody sock after a long run that I realize it’s time to cut my toenails. Something silly that I otherwise should be more mindful of but am not.

In my 20s, when I was actively single and courting one person in particular quite hard, I broke the toenail on my big toe. At that period in my life I was obsessed with minding my feet. And when that toenail broke on the eve of visiting that aforementioned beau I made an appointment with a nail salon to GET A FAKE NAIL applied to my toe.

I can shake my head at that person now. Who has seemingly shed the impossible standard of beauty – as hard as that is for any woman. And settled into a life less… ahem, single. (OMG, Grammarly wants to change that last line to “lifeless” and yes, sometimes it does feel like that.)

As I make my next Botox appointment. And make a down payment on new hair.

I cannot remember the last time that I had a pedicure.

I’m running my 6th marathon in a couple of weeks. Cause for any to celebrate my body. And like a cruel joke, turn 45 the next day. But I’ll be here:

And by “here” I mean in Prague – which I haven’t been to since 2007 – and am I still this person*?

*a person who ignores signage to STAY OFF and goes to sex museums and schedules last-minute flights to Europe to travel by herself and drinks drinks that are set on fire. A blogger, a writer. Things I am not anymore: a smoker (quit in 2008), someone who uses tanning beds (thanks, skin cancer!). I am still someone that still has that tank and cardigan hanging in my closet. Lollllllll