I’ve been exercising regularly for the past few months. If you don’t know me, you have no idea how funny that is. I’m 32 years old, and this is quite possibly the first time I’ve been fit by even the loosest of standards. And, cardiovascularly-speaking, I have a long way to go.

After two pregnancies, which each yielded a small child and a bonus 55 pounds, I’m finally committed to a Mommy Boot Camp program. And although I’m not yet ready to say it out loud… I like it. I look forward to it. I feel better. Stronger. I can run an entire mile. I’m working toward the “Linda Hamilton arms” (circa Terminator 2) an old friend inspired.

That said, I still detest running. And I don’t appreciate those of you out there (my husband, ahem) who make it look so bloody easy. I’ve all but mastered the elliptical machine, the arc trainer, the rowing machine, the Bosu. I’m dabbling in kick boxing. But put me on the track, and the jig is up. I’m awkward and exhausted. I know the greater an object’s mass, the greater the force of gravity… this does not say good things about my body composition. I may even be radioactive.

Everyone — and by everyone, I mean my mom — says staying in shape reaches a new level of difficulty after 35. So I have three years to get this right. Okay, two years, six months and three days. Rub it in. I clearly need to contemplate my strategy over a pint quart of ice cream.

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