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Working out daily had an undeniable affect on my brain. When I stopped resenting my daily jogs and started letting my mind go, I found I liked it. Hell, I actually, unbelievably, looked forward to it. My head cleared. I focused. No tape measure or Toledo scale could measure this benefit. I was happy, goddammit.

Days I didn't work out, I grew distressed. Grumpy. Less pleasant to be around. My ever-shrinking jeans continued to fit, so my misery had nothing to do with size and only a little to do with the guilt of a session missed. Mostly, my aggravation came from missing the mental benefits of my 60 minute sweat/think/run.

Daily workouts gave me a peace I could not name, and had I tried to voice it, my equally cynical friends would have accused me of turning psycho-new-age on them. But Bunny, regardless of potential accusation, was forced to acknowledge the truth of this mind-body-spirit thing touted by the hardcore exercisers of the world. It was no hoax.

As I've already said, '97 was a year of gain and some serious setbacks. Though I was still running every day, and now lifting weights thrice weekly, the pounds began to stack up. Why and how became the loud questions. And here, now — with a year to contemplate — I am prepared to answer.

Somewhere, along the way, I lost the mind-body connection. I grew depressed and stopped acknowledging the need to maintain a balance between intake and output. I comforted myself with greasy food. I ran fewer miles and slower. Somedays, though I knew it was detrimental to my overall well-being, I blew off working out altogether. This only made things worse. Not only did my butt get mushy, so did my brain.

When I snapped out of this funk, it gave way to anger. Though I could clearly see the physical fallout of slacking off for a good ten months — none of my clothes fit anymore — getting my head in order posed a bigger problem.

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