My 'no-going-out-on-Thursday-night' policy has been severely violated lately, and I have nothing good to show for it. Yesterday, I enjoyed some quality time with two former coworkers and a few of their friends. In between watching one couple smoke in their two year old's face (while helping him hold up his sippy cup full of soda, AT MIDNIGHT!), I listened in horror as Kiwi retold stories of her days as a physical therapist in New Zealand.

There were no less than seven stories about overly excited athletes engaging in extreme(-ly insane and stupid) sports, resulting in life threatening injuries and long term rehabilitation. This conversation could not have come at a worse time. Tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen, I am joining a gym. For 25 years, I have fought the evil exercise gods and have rested my laurels on an incredible metabolism (which has, unfortunately, begun to slow to the pace of a hundred year-old Galapagos Island tortoise). All I can think of is slipping off a treadmill and breaking my teeth, lifting dumb weights only to have them drop on one of my human hooves, or straining my opposable thumbs so bad that typing becomes impossible.

Who invented exercise, anyway? No one ever broke their neck while lying down on their couch.