For the life of me, I CANNOT get myself motivated to get into the gym. In all honesty, I’ve never really been the athetic, sport-o, “Hey, let’s go torture ourselves and run 3 miles!!!!” type of person. I can think of about eighty billion other things I’d rather be doing. Like drinking wine. But the flabs of skin that are now decorating the top of my favorite plaid pants (yes, I wear plaid pants) tells me it’s time to hit the eliptical, whether I like it or not.

It’s amusing how friends and co-workers try to make it seem less torturous than it really is. “Oh just watch a movie on your iPod and time will fly by,” or “Just turn on some techno or something and zone out.” Zone out? Seriously? Nothing will ever take my mind off of the fact that instead of relaxing with a book or leisurely surfing the net, I have strapped myself on to a machine that makes me breath ten times faster than normal. Every second is an eternity.

But again, the fact that Jessica Simpson is now looking slim to me makes me think that it’s time to shut up and put up. Or is it out? I get those confused.

So, in exactly 1.5 hours I’ll be plunging myself into the depths of physical fitness hell. Pray for me. And my muffin top.