I shudder to think of the damage wrought had we been in Italy during this storm and I'm so thankful. I'm not at all aggravated by the extra effort we have to put in sanitizing the bas.e.m.e.nt on top of prepping for the show and working on a novel deadline. I'm far too relieved at having been spared to grouse.

What does chap my a.s.s, as always, is social media. Last week, I'd found a disgusting old horsehair footstool and perpetrated a fix that was nothing short of miraculous, even going so far as to learn how to reupholster with furniture tacks. I'm so proud of the craftsmanship and I want to show others that there's almost nothing that can't be brought back from the brink with due effort, so I post a before and after shot on Facebook. Lots of people are engaged and I happily talk them through how to make something similar.

The comment that makes me want to say, "Screw it all," and delete my stupid profile is someone named Lorraine, whom I've never met. Her response is, "Oh, nice. The idle hobbies of the idle rich. I used to like your writing, but you're all privileged now and I can't stand you anymore."

Mind you, I'm all about free speech and have no issue with folks sharing opinions in public forums. Others' thoughts and feelings are none of my business, and not within my purview. But what gets me is when others decide to take their ugliness to my page. Not cool.

When, in polite society, did it become acceptable to walk uninvited into someone else's virtual living room and p.i.s.s all over the sofa? And then for said urinator to feign indignation at the sofa owner's shock and dismay at having been the victim of an unprovoked attack? I could understand if I were posting hate speech or spreading false, inflammatory information. But putting up a picture of a lemon-yellow footstool covered in fabric boasting cartoon frogs and goats?

Really, Lorraine?

This is what sent you over the edge?

A frog footstool?

Personally, I dislike caraway seeds. In my opinion, caraway seeds mar otherwise delicious sausage links and slices of bread. Because I don't enjoy caraway seeds, I avoid eating caraway seeds. That's it. I just don't eat them.

What I don't do is invite myself into caraway seeds' social media presence to renounce caraway seeds to caraway seeds' devoted following. I'm not looking to negatively influence caraway seeds' fans, nor am I hoping to fight with them, because who cares if someone else loves caraway seeds? Personally, I'd never actively try to derail caraway seeds' ability to conduct business. I'm not storming the caraway fields of Egypt because I feel these terrible seeds (technically bits of fruit) shouldn't exist. I simply don't buy caraway seeds because engaging in any other sort of action against that which has no impact on my life is as f.u.c.ked-up as a soup-sandwich, Lorraine.

Moving past the general rudeness of her commentary, what I want to say is, "Lorraine, feel free to grab a broom and stand next to me, ankle-deep in toad-infested water after putting in a month of fifteen-hour days worked for the express purpose of guaranteeing I can cover my mortgage and then please tell me exactly how idle and privileged you feel. By the way, you should wash your feet with soap before getting into bed because I'm not one hundred percent sure the water doesn't contain sewage overflow, too."

Instead, because I'm a decent person, I delete her comment. I don't need a hundred people ganging up on her, regardless of how satisfying that might be to witness.

So, between catching rogue toads, scrubbing every bas.e.m.e.nt surface with a bleach water solution, prepping for my show, and actively restraining myself from signing Lorraine up for the NAMBLA newsletter, I don't have a moment to dwell on what the scale read after my ham-tastic breakfast a few days ago.

Once the opening is over, however, I feel I have no choice, so I weigh myself again.

That's when I realize that maybe the flood of toads wasn't an indication that we need to have our backyard drainage system inspected so much as it's a sign of my own pending personal apocalypse if I don't get my weight in check.

I have to do this.

But how?

In 2007, I dedicated six months of my life to doc.u.ment the experience of losing fifty pounds in a memoir. The resulting Such a Pretty Fat was a huge success, spending six weeks on the New York Times bestseller list.

Except at the end?

I didn't actually lose fifty pounds.

And now, almost eight years after conducting my initial experiment, I'm bigger than ever. The only difference now is that when I searched for quotes about being overweight, I found that I'm now a source that others quote.

So I'm famous . . . for being fat. In fact, I was recently approached for an interview about how fat writers are generally funnier than their skinnier counterparts-in all seriousness, and as though this wasn't the most insulting proposition I'd ever encountered.

I declined.

In the proposal for Pretty Fat (the original t.i.tle before I discovered the URL linked to a big-girl-fetish site), I pledged to do the following: Stop sweating while I eat.

Stop driving one block to Starbucks.

Stop having cookies for dinner.

Stop promising to go to the gym instead of actually going to the gym.

Stop treating my body like a fraternity party.

Start growing up.

I largely failed at keeping those promises, save for not eating cookies for dinner, mostly because I learned how to prepare homemade, Martha Stewartstyle fettuccini Alfredo and cheesecake and pulled pork instead.

Also, breakfast cake. This, in the scheme of things, is worse.

What bothers me so much is that despite the effort I've put forth to attain professional success, the first thing that strangers notice when they look at me isn't the cute bag or the flattering haircut.

What they see is my size.

Regardless of my achievements, I still note the panic in people's eyes when they think they're going to be stuck next to me on an airplane. Despite my upgraded circ.u.mstances, the second I clash with a stranger-and regardless of my being in the right-I'm still called a "Fat b.i.t.c.h."

I'm finding it harder and harder to laugh off these instances. I'm tired of being pitied for my perceived lack of self-control. I'm weary of feeling like I have to apologize for something that is no one's business but my own. I'm sick of cringing every time I see a full-body photo. I'm at the point where if I hear I have "such a pretty face" one more time, something very bad is going to happen.

Most of all, I'm so very over having others on social media speculate that there's something very wrong in my life simply because I haven't managed to conquer this weight business . . . largely because a part of me wonders if they're not right.

Fortunately, I did keep the most important promise I implicitly made when writing Such a Pretty Fat.

I grew up.

So, in the past year, I've begun therapy to discuss the kind of issues that have no place in a humorous memoir. (Sorry. Not that kind of book.) I've learned about emotional eating and I've had nutritional counseling. Overall, I'm in a positive mental state. The more I pursue my bucket list items, the better I feel about life in general. I'm sure I'm on the right track, as I've laid bare my problems and rebuilt my whole self on a more solid emotional foundation.

Truly, my regrets are few. But I'm still as fat as ever.

Really, what's twenty pounds? A couple of bags of flour? A few gallons of milk? A bag of kitty litter? In the scheme of what I have to lose, it's really not that much; why can't I just do it already? Losing twenty pounds might not make a big difference in my appearance but it would sure help my aching knees and, just maybe, give me a jump start that spurs healthier actions.

(Sidebar: I'm especially frustrated because I visited the doctor when it occurred to me that I've never had my thyroid checked. I mean, what if something chemical has been keeping me fat this whole time and I didn't even know it? How great would that be? I blew it with not having a cyst the size of a football, so a thyroid dysfunction seemed like a real second chance. Too bad my doctor ran every test imaginable and . . . THERE'S NOT A d.a.m.n THING WRONG WITH ME. Except for high cholesterol, every single one of my levels is fine-optimum, in fact. All of this extra weight I'm carrying around is entirely my doing, my fault, and my responsibility.) Earlier this year, when I told Julia about my plan to complete a 5K, she said she wanted to do it with me. We made plans to run together on our upcoming girls' trip in September. I told her that I was tired of being Team b.u.t.ter and I wanted to merge with Team Lettuce. Julia replied, "That's awesome because b.u.t.ter lettuce has always been my favorite." But now I have fewer than two months to try to go from couch to 5K.

I decide I'm not going to let her down.

I decide I'm not going to let myself down.

I decide I'm not going to keep making excuses.

Nothing's going to change until I lace up my running shoes, channel the energy generated from haters hating and just freaking do it already.

I'm going to need all my friends behind me here-Ice Cube, Chuck D, LL Cool J, and the whole d.a.m.n Sugarhill Gang. I put together the greatest old-school hip-hop playlist of all time and then, for the first time in far too long, I cart my big a.s.s downstairs to the treadmill. I'm beginning my training right now. Period.

I start with a brisk warm-up walk while Hambone stares me down, completely confused as to why I'm moving but not actually going anywhere. Eazy-E's "Gimme That Nutt" plays first, a song that's so unbelievably filthy and wrong it's actually funny.

(Sidebar: This is exactly how I feel about Fifty Shades of Grey, too. In my opinion, it's not erotic; it's hilarious.) "Nutt" is only three minutes long and I feel . . . okay by the end of it. So I press on to De La Soul's "Me, Myself, and I" and I'm puffing fairly hard by its finish. I may well be panting and my heart's beating out of my chest. I think I've gone deaf in my left ear, too.

I'm already tired and I feel like quitting. Then I realize that it's my mind telling me that this is difficult, rather than my body.

I have strength.

I have endurance.

I can hump a hundred-pound dresser across a Wisconsin county fairground. I can lift and move twenty pieces of furniture in the time it takes a window well to burst. I can stand on my feet and paint, buff, and polish for twelve hours straight. And in terms of tapping into my "stored energy," also known as fat, I could likely power Toledo based on my reserves.

I can do this.

I just have to quiet my inner critic, whom I've thus dubbed Lorraine.

Next up on the playlist, I "Fight the Power" with Public Enemy. I always feel like a ma.s.sive poseur when I listen to this song. What power am I fighting against in my suburban-dwelling, college-educated, conservative-news-watching world? The power baked goods hold over me?

To truly relate, the song would have to be rewritten thusly: Salad was a hero to most/But lettuce never meant s.h.i.t to me/Straight up tasteless that arugula was/Simple and plain/Motherf.u.c.k endive and John Wayne.

I want to send Chuck D a note telling him that I'm so sorry about co-opting his struggles to meet my own purposes. Gina's friends with him and she promises he's just happy that I'm paying to download his stuff on iTunes. I hope so.

As I chug along, I hear Lorraine tell me that I'm tired and that I'm destined to fail, that I'll always be fat, and that I need to just accept it.

Lorraine is a punk-a.s.s b.i.t.c.h.

I'm as warmed up as I'm going to be, so it's time to start alternating jogging with walking. According to the Couch to 5K app, I'm supposed to alternate sixty seconds of jogging with ninety seconds of walking, and I'm to keep doing this for twenty minutes.

I look to Eazy again for inspiration and I complete my first sixty-second run to "Straight Outta Compton."

Much to my surprise, I do not die.

Take that, Lorraine.

I run another sixty seconds. Then I run again. Eminem helps, as does Run-DMC, and I find myself changing the lyrics to: Whose house?/JEN'S HOUSE!

I power through the end of the training session shouting along with LL Cool J about not calling it a comeback, 'cause I been here for years.

Hear that, Lorraine? I BEEN HERE FOR YEARS.

Fueled by spite, I reach my goal.

Turns out the actual act of trying to run wasn't so terrible. The hard part was getting out of my d.a.m.n head and finally starting.

I can do this.

And I will do this.

SEE YOU IN h.e.l.l, BETTY SPAGHETTI.

I'm surprisingly spry the first morning after running.

If I were starting the Couch to 5K program cold, I imagine I'd be in pain, but between walking the length and breadth of Rome and carrying furniture up and down the stairs, I'm more prepared than I hoped. In trying to build a new business, I'd already set the wheels in motion toward success in fitness and I didn't even know it.

My first month of training progresses so smoothly that I've decided when we run our girls' trip 5K, I want a medal at the end. We're not partic.i.p.ating in an actual race because there isn't one where we're headed, but that doesn't mean we can't still award ourselves upon completion. As I'm vehemently against "trophy culture" where everyone wins, of course I'll be eligible for my medal only if I complete the race. I believe when everyone's guaranteed the same prize regardless of performance, the efforts of those who actually won are discounted.

Of course, if I were someone's mom and saw my little kid standing there crushed and empty-handed at the end of the game despite giving her or his best effort, I'd surely be ringing the TROPHIES FOR ALL bell. It's easy for me to suggest that children have to learn to deal with disappointment when I have nothing at stake, but in practice it's got to be so d.a.m.n hard.

Making judgment calls as a mom or dad has to be the toughest job in the world, especially with us childfree types on the sidelines, quietly judging.

I'm so sorry if I've inadvertently contributed to anyone else having regrets.

Because, honestly, what do I know about raising kids? I can barely discipline my dogs. (But I do keep my opinions off everyone's Facebook page, so there's that.) Anyway, I'm planning to eat some Yoplait between now and my trip. I'll use the lids to make medals, like they did on The Office in the Olympics episode. Should I complete this event, I'd also appreciate if someone were to craft a crown of wildflowers and ivy leaves. I don't know who or how, but again, I'm putting that out there la The Secret.

Probably won't happen.

I'd request that the girls carry me on their shoulders like a conquering hero, but I'm still way too heavy and also, I won't have cured cancer or brought about world peace. But I'll have done something so outside of my comfort zone that I'll definitely be proud of myself.

#WINNING.

I practice jogging every day, so by the time my girls' trip rolls around, I feel ready to complete my 5K.

The universe, of course, has other ideas.

Our original plan was to run on the beach but somehow the Savannah-bad-travel-juju rears its head again. What's supposed to be a relaxing seaside vacay turns into a flea-bitten (literally), roach-infested (again, literally), stray-dog-ridden, non-toilet-flushing nightmare that is so aggressively unpleasant that my friends and I end up abandoning our group tour three days into it, heading to the nearest big city.

Although we probably could have stayed and tried to make the best of the Worst Tour in Christendom, we decided that we'd have the fewest regrets if we simply charted our own course, which is why we now find ourselves about to run crowded city streets, instead of the beach where we were supposed to be staying on our tour.

Julia, Alyson (a friend from Dallas), and I are all geared up in our moisture-wicking running clothes, with bills stuffed in our sports bras so we can buy bottled water along the way. Joanna, having recently completed her own first 5K, decides to cheer us on from her spot in the cafe with free Wi-Fi. She and Alex, Julia's mom, promise to have cappuccinos ready for us on our return.

We take the elevator down from the little apartment we rented on the fly and hit the street. We start out slowly, intending to add speed once we're properly warmed up. But within the first five minutes, we realize that our goal of running on these old cobblestone streets is not only impossible due to all the pedestrians, but also quite dangerous.

Instead of giving up, we choose to adapt.

In lieu of running a 5K, we end up speed-walking for 10K.

Never saw that coming.

Later in the evening, when Julia places the completion medals around each of our necks, I truly feel like I accomplished something significant. While walking a 10K wasn't my original goal, without having trained, I could never have powered through.

Never one to allow a triumph to go to waste, I immediately add walk a 10K to my list, taking great delight in immediately crossing it off.

Which feels terrific.

And that's enough for me . . .

. . . or is it?

Once I return home (and after all the flea bites heal), I still feel like there's something left to check off my list, so I lace up my shoes and head downstairs to the treadmill.