My arms hurt. A lot. And it’s not ’cause I just flew in from Albuquerque or anything, although that would be AWESOME, ’cause it’s warm down there, and even I’ve had about enough of winter at this point. (Sarah’s flying to Florida tomorrow. I hate her.)

No, my arms hurt because I realized that I had ballooned up to my pre-diet weight of last spring, and that if I wanted to stop going back and forth like some mutant child of Oprah and John Kerry, I needed to start working out. This also has the side benefit of making me really chiseled and cut, so I can stop the bigger kids from beating me up all the time.

So yesterday afternoon, I dragged my weary carcass to the gym, where I warmed up a bit on an exercise bike, and then launched into a flurry of stretching, lifting, pulling, throwing, punching, humpty-dancing, drinking roughly 40 gallons of water, and having as many as three heart attacks, depending on whether that last one was just acid reflux from all the cheese I ate with lunch. Apparently I need to figure out a way of stretching my triceps muscles after the workout, because right now they are in agonizing pain. I can barely move them. I woke up in the middle of the night to use the john and thought I’d dislocated something. (In my arms, you perv.)

I was hoping to start a regular Monday, Wednesday, and Friday workout schedule, but I may never be able to make my arms work again, which would make it difficult to exercise. Oh well. Perhaps I’ll take up yoga. Except that it involves stretching and breathing, and I hate stretching almost as much as I hate breathing. WHY, OH WHY CAN I NOT GET MY OXYGEN THROUGH ALVEOLI ON THE SURFACE OF MY HEAD!!! The chicks would totally dig it.