I was out in the cold,

paying for my sins on the pavement, each new hill a renewed prayer. The Strokes were shouting encouragement into my ears, but I was zoned out. Every shirked responsibility, every mistake I had made over the past few weeks came pounding down on my chest, pushing me backwards. I snapped at my sister, I played hard to get at a party, I never made those phone calls, I didn't save enough money, I had two servings of chocolate creme pie. The guilt came crashing down, so I punished myself as far as I could. Suck it up, Sally, take your dress off. Two and half miles later, I was pulling into my driveway, masochistically pleased with myself. I had faced my wrongdoings and repaid them with sweat. I grabbed the mail and strolled breathlessly into my house. Then I looked down. In my hands was the Victoria Secret Spring Collection 2011. Air-brushed perfection stared smugly up at me from a tropical beach wearing nothing but string it seemed like. Shit. I realized that I was going to Florida for spring break. In March. As in two months away. And I am as pale as the freshly fallen snow out on my lawn and looked something like Pillsbury Doughboy's older, single sister. Thanks, Victoria's Secret, you have successful taken my self-esteem down a couple more notches.