In which I bemoan the loss of my twenty-something body… even though it’s been gone for, like, seventeen years.

God, I hate exercising. I don’t think I make the right endorphins. People are always going on about how they ‘feel so good’ after working out. It makes me sick because I feel nothing but tired and pissed off. A few years ago I took the most brilliant low-impact step aerobics class at the rec center, and even that just made me feel sweaty and agro.

I don’t mind walking twenty blocks to get somewhere, but any codified exercise activity just makes me mad.

Today for lunch, while watching a Tivo’ed episode of Sex and the City (oh Manhattan!), I ate three ounces of brie and an entire avocado in the form of a sourdough sandwich that also contained mayo and tomato.

Do you suppose these things are why I’m thirty pounds into territory that can only charitably be called ‘cuddly’?

Nah.