Pain is a four-letter word

Since my baby is ten years old, I thought it might be time to start working off some of this baby fat. (Also, I discovered Netflix has workout videos.) So yesterday, I changed into my spandex/ lycra workout shorts, threw on a tank top over a support bra, laced up my new running shoes and propped up my laptop on the bedroom floor, workout video ready to go.

The dogs thought we were going for a walk because I'd put on my running shoes, so I spent the next ten minutes trying to get them to quit jumping on me. Treats worked. They spent the rest of the time snacking and laughing at me as I huffed and puffed through a thirty minute torture session led by a smiling, upbeat, size two Attila the Hun.

Now, in my mind's eye, I'm still the in-shape, sleek and slim model-type I used to be. Sure, I weigh about forty pounds more, but I carry it well. In fact, I look even better with a little meat on my bones, don't I? My bedroom mirror tells a different story. All through the workout, I kept catching glimpses of a pudgy, cellulite enhanced, gasping middle-aged woman. Where the heck did she come from? Would someone please tell me who stole my body and left this in it's place? The age and over-indulgence fairy, apparently.

Today, my muscles are so sore I can't move without saying "ouch" or "ohhhh" or "I'm an idiot." I opted for a yoga video instead of "Bikini-Ready in Four Short Weeks."

The only thing that's going to get me bikini-ready is a close encounter with a plastic surgeon.