"Do I offend?"

"Motherhood makes you lose your vanity," said my friend Kristin, who had a baby last month, as she recounted her 24-hour plus labor and delivery. I'd say the same thing about marathon training. Running tights and jackets composed of various manmade, wicking-type materials are my new weekend uniform. My teammates and I know entirely too much about each other's intestinal going's on (word to the wise: forgo the latte-mug of coffee before a long run) and I can no longer guarantee I'll arrive anywhere but work smelling Irish-spring fresh.

Saturday, I ran the Snowflake 4-miler through frigid Central Park (in a very respectable 36.39), and then, hair matted to my head like a Tiny Tim wig at the bottom of a kid's dress-up trunk, headed to Fifth Avenue to help Max shop for suits at Brooks Brothers. I looked like no one any sane, sighted person would ever take fashion advice from; I wouldn't even take it from myself.

"Don't you want to stop home and take a shower first?" Max asked as I arranged to meet him. "Shower?" I balked, "But I only ran 4 miles!" A few short months ago, I would never have uttered the words "only" and "four miles" in the same sentence, and I certainly wouldn't have trolled in Fifth Avenue (even ducking in Cartier to gawk while waiting for Max to show up) looking like a refugee from VaporWick City. But I'm heartier now, and significantly less concerned with what my body looks like, or what clothes are covering it, than what it's capable of. And that, even more than my race time, makes me proud.