If you’ve been a reader for any length of time, you may remember that exercise and I have never been on good terms. However, the recent addition of discounted gym memberships to our already huge list of kick-ass employee benefits has me ready to give physical fitness the chance it deserves.

I’d like to tell you that my change of heart is due to a personal breakthrough that involves me becoming uber health conscious or that I’ve vowed to treat my body like a temple. Not so. The impetus for this life revolution is simply that the weather just turned nice and there ain’t no way in hell I’d stroll a beach with this body. (That and my pants don’t fit quite as well as they used to.)

Sure, I’m all for being healthier and living longer and having more energy and sleeping better and all that jazz. But I’ll be honest. The promise of better circulation isn’t going to get my lazy ass to the gym. It will get me to eat right, sleep well, and take vitamins. Why? Those things are easy. Exercise is not.

Unfortunately, while looking good is the best motivator to get me to the gym, it’s probably the biggest deterrent keeping me from the gym as well. Cause let’s think about this. Who will be at the gym with me? All my coworkers. Good God! Do I really want the head of finance to see me getting my belly fat measured? Do I need my colleagues to know what I look like in yoga pants? Do I feel comfortable enough with my boss to risk him catching me exiting the pool?

Hell no.

I like my coworkers in a “I’m cool spending time together outside of the office” kind of way, but NOT in a “I’m down with you getting an eyeful of my cellulite” kind of way.

Now I need to get into shape just so I can start going to the gym!

I remember the days when I bought only whatever food was on special at the local supermarket, when I was barely able to make minimum payments on my credit cards, and when my “nice” clothes came from Target. It sucked living paycheck to paycheck. There’s no doubt about that. But there was one small (yet significant) benefit to being dirt poor . . .

I actually got a tax refund.

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Daylight Savings Time is kicking my ass.

Sure, initially I was on board with the possibility of coming home in daylight (I worked late every day this week and drove home in the dark anyway). I was honestly willing to sacrifice that one precious hour of sleep. I even enjoyed two mornings of peace and quiet because the cats have no concept of changing the clocks and didn’t realize I should be waking up any second to feed them.

The problem is that now, due to Daylight Savings Time, I have to get up before Mr. Sun. That is a bad thing.

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I remember that as a teenager I thought the lowest form of self-debasement was putting on a chicken suit and dancing outside a dry cleaners to help increase business. (It wasn’t until I became a school mascot for a night that I realized that no one knows who’s actually in the costume, so your dignity isn’t really compromised.)

Nowadays, I flinch the same way whenever I see the Valtrex chick. I couldn’t say how lucrative a business starring in those commercials might be, but I doubt it’s enough money to be forever thereafter known as the “herpes girl.” I mean, even if you actually HAVE herpes, do you really want the whole world to know about it?

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As in, “I wonder what they were thinking.”

Long ago I learned to accept that women’s apparel is neither sensible nor functional. Secretly, I believe that these clothes are designed by men who continually come up with more and more ridiculous garments in the hopes that ladies everywhere will reach the peak of their frustration and swear off clothing altogether.

There is no other way to explain the single most idiotic piece of clothing I have ever experienced the misfortune of trying on. We’re talking stupider than guachos. More pointless than crotchless underpants.

The midriff sweater.

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