K. and I went for a pedicure together today because she deserved one and because I thought I should put forth a little effort. It was the standard pedicure scene: a seemingly gracious lady talking about you in a foreign language to another seemingly gracious lady. To be fair, I only understand English and some Spanish, so the ladies could have been complimenting me and my six toenails, but I don’t think so. What they did say to K., after asking if her boobs were real and how much her coffee cost, was that she should run (like me) to lose weight. K. is actually gracious, so she just smiled, but I (after lying about how much my coffee cost) thought a lot about how I would never make it out the door to run if I were doing it to lose weight. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate being able to eat lots of food without gaining weight if I’m running 100 miles a week. I like answering the question “What are you training for?” with: “Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast.” But we run because we love the act of running, right? It’s a compulsion, not a fitness regimen. I couldn’t think of a way to explain this to the pedicure harridans.