No pain. No gain.

I hate to exercise. I am fully clad in work out wear as I write this. I am gearing up for Michelle's Butts n' Guts class that seriously kicks my butt. Note that it kicks my butt but so far does nothing to shape it. Perhaps all those nightly Dove chocolates left over from Valentine's Day are a distant contributing factor. Hey, I'm just trying to make room in the pantry for Easter candy. Just doing my part on the housekeeping front.

It doesn't help that I lack coordination, balance, strength, stamina...oh yeah, and interest. Basically all the athletic prowess chromosomes skipped over me to go swimming in someone else's gene pool. Looking in a mirror as I try to master some choreography while balancing on a step is nothing less than humorous and humiliating. My lack of athleticism is a constant source of humor and frustration for Mac Daddy. He is naturally athletic so he can't comprehend why I can't hit the ball off the tee on the first try. Nevermind that I haven't golfed in seven years. And have you noticed how dang small that ball is?!

It seems that Bird and Deal will take after their dad. Well, sort of. Let's face it, Deal is gonna be the star athlete in the family whose newspaper clippings we will paste into his scrapbook. Bird is going to enjoy sports but will not have the same talent as his little brother. Bird has grace while Deal has brawn. Bird will be the kicker (the most graceful position in football, I like to say) while Deal will be the gentle giant playing defensive end (like I even know what that is!). At least they see us exercising and taking time to do what's healthy so we are setting a good example. I don't dare let on that I hate every single painful, boring minute of it.

You know why I hate exercise? Because it doesn't end. Why must I work out day after day after day after day? I just want to do it, hit my goal, and stop. I'm the kind of girl who likes to cross things off her to-do list. Sometimes if I complete a task that wasn't on my list, I just write it down to feel the sense of accomplishment of crossing it off. Exercise is a task that shows up every single day, mocking me into submission. Buying cute workout wear isn't even motivation enough (other than buying tennis skirts, of which I cannot get enough!). I want exercise to be like painting a room. You toil, sweat, curse, and labor through it. At the end you have lovely Sherwood Forest green walls. And you're done.

Is there a way to make exercise fun? Is there hope for me? A magic pill? Where can I find the Kool Aid that the meatheads at the gym have obviously drunk? I refuse to let my body fall into the 40-year old sagging blubber factory that it's destined to become without Michelle. I just want my body to be all Jessica Biel but I don't want to work for it.