Celebrity Runner

Did you know that I was a celebrity? I didn’t either. But I figured it out on a run last week. I was on the final stretch on my run in our neighborhood, when the paparazzi caught me by surprise and started taking my picture. I didn’t know what to do (be nice and stop to give an autograph?), so I settled on continuing to run. For all the negative things you hear about the paparazzi, they seemed harmless to me. These photographers were two pre-teen girls, who snapped my picture, giggled, and then ran into their house. I think there’s a logical reason for all of this, though. They must have mistaken me for celebrity-runner Katie Holmes, who finished a marathon last fall. We look a lot alike: she with her perfectly manicured hair, stylish work-out gear, and make-up on her face; I with my perfectly unmanageable hair in a sloppy ponytail, mismatched work-out gear (if a ratty t-shirt and old shorts count as gear), and leftover breakfast on my face. I can understand the innocent mix-up. Apparently they figured out their mistake because I haven’t seen any sign of the paparazzi since then. I’m ok with it, though. I’ve grown to appreciate my celebrity non-status. And even my ratty t-shirts, too.