Oops, it's that time of the month...

No, not THAT time of the month. (That's still all frakked up, thanks for asking.) It's the time of the month where Casey over at Half As Good As You pesters us into logging our fitness & weight loss progress for club HASAY.

Here's where I'm at: the exercises and stretches that Trainer Lady is getting me to do are helping my effed-up back immensely. She's given me the green light to get back to working out, provided I stretch and roll all my muscles out on the Pool Noodle of Pain foam roller and make sure everything is in alignment and pray thricely to the Nautilus Gods and for the luvvapete, take it slow.

But I haven't. I'm doing the strength exercises she's given me, and that's about the extent of it. My back still feels...kind of twitchy. Like, Bobcat Goldwhaite twitchy. I'm terrified I'm going to eff it up again, just when I'm really starting to enjoy the novelty of having free movement and being able to bend down and pick something up without suddenly morphing into an 85-year-old.

Also, I'm lazy. I may have mentioned that. Once or twice.

But I feel awful and I'm tired all the time. The other day, it was pouring rain and my car was desperately in need of gas, because I wait until the gas light comes on like I'm a broke-ass 16 years old. My debit card wasn't working because they sent out these new 'chip' cards and naturally, I tossed the envelope on the kitchen table and forgot all about it and then the old one expired and yes, I know, sometimes I just fucking fail at life, okay? It's hard to be a grown-up.

Anyway. I had forty bucks in my wallet so I put forty in the tank, and went to pay, and the girl in her plexiglass booth said, "Um, you still owe me ten dollars."

Because in addition to failing at life, I also can't count. I only had THIRTY dollars. Awesome. Luckily for me, I was two blocks from home, so I jogged home through the freezing rain and then back again with my new stupid 'chip' card and paid her while she smirked.

The whole point of that little narrative is that after that short, teeny-tiny really, run, my legs were burning, and I was gasping. Hard to believe that 2 months ago I was running 4 kilometres on a regular basis.

Later that same day, as I sat on the couch with my muffin-top spilling over my jeans, encased in a bright orange shirt, my son toddled up and poked it. "Ball!" he exclaimed.

Okay, kid. I get the point.