I feel squishy.  That is to say, I have regions of my body that feel more squishy than they have before, and I am upset and annoyed.  So upset that I want to eat cookies.  Before our wedding, I was working out two and three days a week with Plump Panda, I’d visit her at her apartment complex and we’d talk and exercise.  She’d rock the eliptical, and I’d get my butt handed to me by the stair climber.  But then, post-wedding, Nick and I had just the one car to share, and I was dealing with huge life change in my own, very healthy way, so I didn’t work out with her.  Nick brought my bike to me and I rode it over twice. . . .and then the idea was just too big.  Biking twelve miles round trip with only one gear just to get to the goal, which is more exercise?  Wow, no thanks.  Plus it was raiiiinnyyyyyy and I am a fair weather cyclist.  Extremely fair weather.  And, on top of all that, I started coming into my own as a fifties housewife.  I currently have sugar cookie dough hanging out in my fridge, in case I need to make a few cookies RIGHT NOW.
But today, today I worked out.  I spoke to the friends, jumped into Chelsea since Nick took El Jefe to work, and proceeded to die a horrible, cardio-related death.  An entire thirty minutes on the stair climber thing, set at level 3, and I thought my lungs were going to asplode.  My pulse was up to 148.  That is not good, my friends.  I went into a severe post-cardio daze once I was done.  I showered because it was gross not to do so, ate because I was eversovery hungry, and then plopped down with a book and tried not to move.  My glutes hurt.  I earned some cookies, right guys?