Damn You, Jillian Michaels

I’ve been very very lax about exercise. I long for my unemployed days of last winter, when I used to go to the gym for hours at a time. The numbers on the scale registered 10 less then they do now, my running sneakers sit by the door and do not reek of fresh sweat. My running partner, Griffen, hasn’t sniffed anything on the side of the road in months now.

I used to be the one who got up at some obnoxiously early hour to run. I also used to be the one whose jeans fit. Then I was hired by an employer who expects me to be on the job at 8 AM. Then the clocks turned back and it’s pitch dark on my street so that I cannot see where I am running if I try to jog in the evenings. Pot holes and ankles are NOT friends.

Then I discovered that we have free exercise shows beamed into our living room via the wonders of cable TV. For the last two days I have done Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred after reading rave reviews about it all over the Internet. I did the workout last night when I got home from work and then again this morning before work. The workout is only 20 minutes long, but it’s a 20 minutes that is chock full of activity that had me doubled over and panting a few times scrambling for the glass of water left on the coffee table who knows when which who knows what floating on the surface.

My thighs burn and feel like they will give out when I walk down stairs to the point where I am white knuckling the handrails. My arms ache when I lift them up. This morning in the shower I could barely control my hands as I tried to wash my face. Rather than apply the Cetaphil to the face, I lightly grazed the tip of my nose with it and ended up with the cleanser on my scalp and on the edge of my ears—and still considered it a job well done.

I have resumed my love affair with ibuprofen and Tylenol. Though I’ve been scouring the medicine cabinet for something stronger of the prescription variety. Would it be wrong to take Griffen’s pain killers from his tooth removal operation?