"Right around the time I turned 20, a boyfriend of mine dragged me to a Yes concert. I say “dragged� not because I have anything against the band, but because I knew only two of their songs, and I was the only girl going.

My then-boyfriend and his friends were big Yes fans, and they had rented a limo stocked with booze, and it was a real party scene in that vehicle. Well, it was a real party scene for them, less so for me, the girl who didn't know Yes songs, and the one who was becoming increasingly aware that she'd been brought along as a type of ornament rather than a bona fide member of that party.

Well, little did these guys know that, though I look and act American, I have Anglo-Saxon genes, and I started hitting the booze pretty hard. I was pretty sure that, by the time we arrived at the event, I wouldn't care too much about the lyrics.

My plan backfired. Instead of becoming powerful and vengeful like an Anglo. . . or perhaps a Saxon, I became tearful, and before I knew it, I was sobbing out by the vendors, while my completely peeved date stared on in terror.

There was sobbing, there was screaming, there was the great Universal lament of all women, possessed that moment in me. How was I ever going to balance having children and a career? How could I ever afford to go to graduate school? How would a loser like this guy (him), be able to make enough money so I could raise children without working?

After the screaming and shouting and staring, I broke free (though he wasn't holding me) and I started to run from the stadium. I had no idea where I was going, I had not a dollar bill on my person, but still I ran from him (and I think I recall screaming LOSER all the way).

By the time the concert had ended, I was waiting for the party by the limo, a crumpled Saxon with no ride and nowhere left to run.

Three months later our relationship was officially over, I had my first Margaret Atwood novel in my hands, and I experienced the pleasure of meeting Marian McAlpin. Dear, dear Marian. . . Marian McAlpin, who also runs.

This week, 20+ years later, I decided to reread my Atwood debut, The Edible Woman, and it took me right back. Back to Marian, back to Ainsley, Peter and Duncan, and back to all of the colorful friends from this novel.

It was one big reading love fest, and when I arrived at the part of the story where Marian runs, I remembered the night that I shouted “No!� and ran from Yes.

Atwood does a brilliant job here of explaining, through her many delicious metaphors and superior storytelling, how we “eat or are eaten,� and that who we are as consumers of EVERYTHING, is not necessarily the crux of ANYTHING.

And she reminds us in this novel that sometimes. . . a girl's gotta run."