YOU GUYS! You thought I died or something, didn’t you? No such luck, ENEMIES.

I’m here, I’m just tired as FUUUCK. For reals. I mean, I did grad school, I did two babies, I did the made-for-TV-movie marriage. So I knows what tired is. It’s here. And it wants its drycleaning.

On Sunday I went to kickboxing class. I am supposed to go to kickboxing class on Sundays, but tell me, is that a bad idea or what? Sundays are for stuffing your maw with crepes, or totally buying some MF shoes, or hoovering some rinky-dink off a hooker’s flibbertigibbet. Needless to say, I have NEVER gone to class on Sunday, and now I know why. Verily, it sucketh. Suckethed.

So I bopped around with my jump rope until my face matched my hair, and then we did a little boxer’s shuffle, and some warm up punching, and after about ten minutes got ready in front of the bags. We were going to give those bags a bag-whuppin.

I got ready for a jab-cross, just to warm up. Jab. Cross….OW. Ow, ow, ow. Hello, the floor. I love you, The Floor.

“Dude, are you okay?” Supa said.

“No,” I replied. “I’ll be across the street.” I scraped myself off the floor, mooched some ibuprofen off the instructor, and went to the coffee shop to get a giant mocha-latty. The barista played the entire new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album all the way through, which I am now interested in because of the awesome fall mix tape that Sweetney sent me. I had a great time. I love exercise!

You know, through all my retail and barista shenanigans, I have never pulled a muscle in my back until Sunday. My conclusion is that I am old and that exercise is bad for me. In fact, I know this is true, because I got on the scale for the five-week weigh-in and I have gone up in weight and bodyfat. Five days a week of exercise=fatter. Yes! I have awesomely subverted the dominant paradigm or something.

“Um, what happened?” said the instructor, as she marked down my numbers.

“There was an incident with some cheese,” I replied evasively.

“Hmm,” she said. “Well, if you’re concerned or frustrated…”

“I feel like I should be more concerned or frustrated,” I said, which is true.

I’m not either, though. My pants are looser. I feel better. I sprinted across the rose garden the other night and I didn’t even get the teensiest bit out of breath. I’ve lost a couple of inches off my waist. I am reaching the point where I see myself in the mirror and say, “OH YEAH I’D HIT THAT.” (It’s fun to do this in public and watch Companion edge away with the baby. Hur hur hur.)

I’m not really in this for the numbers on the scale. My goal is to have endurance and be stronger. I don’t want to be one of those old ladies on the bus who are question mark-shaped and can hardly move.

So screw you, scale. Screw you, creakity back. When this is over I can say, “I think I can beat Mike Tyson.”

Oh, and if this blog is being updated too infrequently for you, you can often hear me Rambling Boringly and Incoherently ™ at I, Tourista when I’m in my car and too tired to make the typing.