Exercise in the 'hood

I think I may have been brainwashed over the weekend. Ya'll know my policy on exercise, right? So what the hell was I doing taking a nice leisurely stroll up the biggest gawdang effen hill known to man? I dunno. I believe my mother had something to do with it.

For those who don't know my mother, she is like Weight Lifter Barbie -- cute, blonde, tan, toned, and doesn't look her age. She's been giving me a complex about my own un-Barbie-ness for about 10 years now, which I think is taking the typical "mother's guilt-trip" a wee bit too far.

Take for instance our jaunt to Las Vegas 2 years ago. I was super excited. Mom, Katy and I were going to spend a weekend together, walking the strip, going inside every hotel, ooohing and aaaahhhing over the all fanciness. About a week beforehand, Katy steps on a bumblebee and her foot swells up to kingdom come. What the ... ?! I was freaking out -- how was she going to walk around Vegas with a foot to rival Homer Simpson?

Well, that turned out to be the least of my worries. Turns out, I'm extremely out of shape. Who knew? I barely made it 3 blocks or so down the strip before my back started hurting. My own sister, the one with her donut foot shoved in a flip-flop, was practically galivanting! And don't even get me started on mother -- this woman just needs to stop it.

So basically, I've come to these conclusions:

1) I can't be around mom anymore. She makes me feel flabby.
2) I can't be around Katy anymore. She makes me feel unattractive.
3) Curses! I may have to stop eating.
4) And ... gulp ... start exercising.

(Note to self: find way to turn reading and scrapbooking into exercise.)
(Another note to self: train body to turn blended lattes into muscle-enhancing proteins.)

Boy, I've got a long road ahead of me. Preferably one without a gigantic drag-your-ass-up-this-blasted-hill hill.