I resolve to be a better person. Starting with my rear end.

Be it resolved (get it? it's a New Year's thing) that I, Miss TK, have decided to run the Garry Bjorklund half marathon in June. Hopefully in a non-embarrassing time.

My fitness level has exploded in the last three years, if such a thing can explode, and I feel good(well, um, mostly) about setting such a lofty goal. I've come a long way from the soft, frozen-pizza-inhaling Salesgirl of the Shore, and even further from the Shiraz-and-Newcastle-snorting Woodward of the Woods.

Here's a brief history of how my workouts, and my hind den, have looked:

1983-1990, GRADE SCHOOL. No formal training, unless you count Jen and I exploring the creek behind our Skyline homes and the occasional game of Hop on Pop. Some downhill skiing at Spirit. We're tomboys.

1990-1992, JUNIOR HIGH. This was my ugly-duckling-turns-to-swan stage. I shed my huge plastic glasses. I'm much more interested in Crayola blue eyeliner and huge hoop earrings than muscle tone.

1992-1996, HIGH SCHOOL. My best friend, Jen, forces me to join the cross country team on a bet. I usually finish in the low middle. I stay slim until my senior year, when I meet the SUPER Skinny Guy (as opposed to just the skinny one). His idea of a meal is one slice of pizza and a few sips of iced tea. Really, who eats ONE piece of pizza?! As I hate to see food go to waste, I finish all of his leftovers and start to chub out a bit.

1996-2000, COLLEGE. I work out, but never really push it. Luckily, my metabolism is humming, so dragging Jaime around the track in the Sports & Health Center is well good enough.

2000, THE NORTH SHORE NIGHTMARE. You're kidding, right? This was when size 10 started to fit me better than size 8. Lotta time in the car. Walks to the grocery store are about it.

2001-2004, THE NORTHWOODS NIGHTMARE. Yup, I'm a size 10. About 145 pounds. Not really fat, but flabby from lack of movement. Lots of drinking. A life with the world's most unathletic man. I'm miserable, and my slackened booty shouts this fact. I can't finish a mile run.

2004, HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN. Hurrah! I'm here for my dream job, living in the world's smallest apartment off the Lakewalk. I'm happy and start taking good care of myself, making big batches of bachelorette soup to chug all week long. (Black beans, tomatoes, onions, chicken, pasta in a Spicy V-8 base. DI-VINE.) I start running again, albeit slowly. Roger kicks my butt on 2-milers. Though I have a ways to go, the weight starts to come off naturally. Size 8, hello beautiful! It's been toooo long!

This is also the year I meet the LOML.

2005, DOMESTIC BLISS. I'm settling in and feeling comfortable with work, love, etc. My engagement propels me forward. I stop slacking off on the elliptical with People magazine, and I start doing Spin and Boot Camp classes. I leave them with a pounding head and a red faceâ€Â"and a tighter butt. I slither my 68-inch self into some size 6s and don't have any trouble keeping up during pickup games of flag football.

2006, THE HERE AND NOW. I have an outstanding summer, but in the fall, a few newlywed pounds creep up. Fearful I'm becoming a stereotype, I pick it back up and start grazing on Triscuits and peanut butter. (Okay, that's a lie. I wish I had the willpower. I ate four seafood tacos at the holiday party Saturday, with cookie chasers). I do, however, finish a 5K in 28 minutes, which pleases me, as running it was a pretty last-minute decision.

I love the feeling that running gives me (after it's over, of course) and start doing 4 and 5 mile jaunts a few times a day. I'm sore, which I love. That means it's working, right?

Making this resolution in a public forum FORCES me to keep it.

Or lie about it.

On with the training!