All righty now… I think the world is now safe from the threat of my life threatening (really! It was horrid! Or at least annoying) cold. Now it’s just a gross collection of odd snorts and hacking coughs as I try to spew forth the gunk dripping in thick, slimy threads from my sinuses (having breakfast? Did that make you more hungry?) The chortle of trying to bring up the massive lugies is made worse my eating, which makes me a wonderful dinner companion, I’m sure.

But I’m feeling terrific, even getting up at Way Too Early in the morning to walk with some of the neighbors. Well, twice this week, anyway. They walk at a nice clip, I realize now just how freakishly out of shape I am, made worse by having not been swimming in a few weeks (because, frankly, the Y pool appears to have lots of the aforementioned lugies floating in the water, and it creeps me out.) My shins are screaming at me, not necessarily telling me to stop it already, but more like “see, you’re fat and you’re out of shape, and we’re going to remind you with every beat of your heart.”

Really, when you finally get off your ample ass and start working out again, shouldn’t your body be thanking you for it instead of tormenting you even further? What ever happened to that nice endorphin rush that makes the effort worth it? The addictive properties that propel a person off the couch and into running shoes? Do I not get that? Am I doomed to forever feel the aches and pains and “oh this just sucks” of activity? Well?

Maybe I’ll just sleep in and be waiting for them all on the front lawn when they get home, with a huge freaking plate full o’cake in one hand and a raspberry smoothie in the other. That’ll learn ‘em to be morning people with goals.

Oh, hush.

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