1 I ran my first marathon in 2001 in a time of 3:28:38. After peaking at nearly 260 pounds, I am now an exercise addict.

2 If I were a character in one of those X-Men movies, I’d be Caffeine Boy, and I’d have latte mugs for hands, and I’d protect the world by tossing hot coffee in criminals’ faces, or by getting really wired and forcing bad people listen to me sing “Hips Don’t Lie” like Shakira. I am, no lie, addicted to triple shot, no fat, no whip white mochas from Starbuck’s and medium, extra shot, skim Caramel Silks (and homemade granola) from Uncommon Grounds.

3 I am obsessed with soft, shiny lips. My lips must always be covered with Vaseline, or Carmex, or LipSmackers. This is my meth. If I could make Carmex in a bathtub, I would.

4 Feet gross me out; they are too pedestrian to be attractive, though mine look great in slides. I call Gary’s feet his “hooves,” and asks when he is going to get “re-shoed.” He never laughs at this.

5 Perhaps because of this foot fetish, I fall. A lot. Down stairs, and hillsides, into parked cars, and racks of clothes, usually tossing a latte or bottle of water as I go down. It’s never pretty. My knees often resemble those of a crack whore.

6 I need only a few foodstuffs to make me happy in this world: Kashi Go-Lean cereal; Morningstar Black Bean burgers; chicken; ground turkey breast (you can make anything with it); apples; water; and, of course, coffee. That said, I do go on benders. I still like Hamburger Helper (Cheeseburger Macaroni, thank you very much), ice cream, Funyons, and Hot Fries. You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Which is probably why I’m back.

7 Speaking of which, I now live in the woods and must deal with the fact that Gary thinks he will be offed by a serial killer and that no one will hear his screams. I have had to persuade him not to put bear traps around the perimeter of our house. I have had to remind him that there was a significantly greater chance he could have been killed in a city, and even if he had screamed for help, no one would have come. “At least in the city,” he says, “someone would have heard me.”

8 I take longer to get ready than Jessica Alba.

9 I tan too much and whiten my teeth. It’s the gay man’s curse.

10 I have a phobia of pooping in public places. (Although I think it’s more “Someone might recognize my shoes if I do” more than anything germ-related)