Am I Dead Yet?

Apparently, my life just wasn't scattered and frenzied enough. Apparently, I wasn't experiencing quite enough misery on a daily basis. Something had to change, and now. So I signed myself up (along with the whole family, because let's face it, Misery loves company...) for a membership at the YMCA. We are jumping in with both feet--at least I am--with yoga, water aerobics, and weekly use of the weight room/gym (see: "torture chamber"). I've got my whole week planned out, and I'm going to exercise three times a week. Yesterday was my first yoga class, and it was actually splendid. My instructor complimented me several times during class on my balance, and even asked me if I'd ever studied dance (here I believe she was resorting to shameless flattery in order to entice her only pupil under the age of sixty. I did take a dance class in college. Intro to Dance with Cornelius Carter, former member of Alvin Ailey. I'm certain the man did not realize he was leading an introductory level course. His lighter routines left this little white girl purple and gasping like a toad. I think he took special delight in those moments.). After yesterday's class, I laced up my sneakers, trotted out to retrieve the wee ones, who'd been blissfully playing in the kiddie care room (I get to drop them off for two hours at a time! Those Y suckers...), and gathered us into the van. This getting in shape business was going to suit me fine.

Meet me, if you will, in present day.

I feel exactly as though someone has taken a baseball bat to my innards. Honestly, it was all I could do to ease out of bed this morning. It hurts to cough, to laugh, to sit on the toilet. Ladies and gentlemen, I have staged a war on my fat cells and the fat cells are retaliating with outright ambush. A steady diet of Slim-Fast and ibuprofen since Sunday... and I've gained a pound. WHAT??????