A few weeks ago, I found a blog post about a woman who did 300 sit-ups a day for 30 days and her abs looked totally different. I have no intention of doing 300 sit-ups every day, but there was a time when I could, and my core could use a little, well, tightening. So I wrote down the sets and thought I'd try doing them a few times a week to see what happened.

Hubris was mine. I was born with strong abdominal muscles. Even when I was completely out of shape as a child, I could always do more than the required amount of sit-ups in P.E. or for the Presidential Fitness Test. Sit-ups have always been my place to shine. No problem, I thought, to this 300 sit-ups business. I just need to get back in the groove.

I did the sets on Friday around noon. They were hard, I won't lie, but I was able to finish them and pick my ass off the floor afterward. Friday was totally normal.

Saturday, I woke up and was unable to lift my legs. Apparently, there is a muscle here:

I can't even tell you. It's like exactly where my legs connect to my torso. FIRE RAGING FIRE. Do my abs hurt? No. Do my upper thighs hurt? No. Hips? No. Butt? No. JUST WHATEVER THAT IS.

I went to bed last night in fear, because anyone who has ever worked out too hard knows the agony that is the TWO-DAY SORE. It's like your body saves up all the worst of it for the SECOND day after you overdo whatever it was you overdid. I woke up this morning and had to lift my legs with my arms to get out of bed, because there was no way I was going to flex whatever attaches my limbs to my body. I winced my way to the bathroom and found myself massaging analgesic cream into areas of my body I never thought I would and pounding Advil. About an hour ago I made Beloved go for a walk around the block with me, because even though I did not in any way wish to move, I know if you don't, the stiffness mixes with the TWO-DAY SORE and it's all downhill from there. I would like to be able to walk without looking like there is a pole up my butt by 2013.

So I can do my sit-ups again, because anything that brings the pain like that must work like gangbusters! Only this time, maybe I'll build up. Apparently, I'm not 17 anymore. Aging can suck it.

PS: I got the scientific drawing above from the Lloyd Release Procedure, which looks scary. I'm fairly certain I violated copyright law. I'm not exactly sure where to find safe anatomy images. I checked Wikimedia Commons and got nothing. Same with Flickr. Ideas?

Hi, I'm Rita, and I like to exercise. 

There, I've said it.

I will actually create chores just so I can exercise while doing them. Which explains why I shoveled the back deck while it was still snowing yesterday.

I've been working out at least three times a week since I was 17 years old. I'm coming up on 20 years of jogging, elliptical machines, stairmasters, step aerobics, kickboxing and Jane Fonda. I did Buns of Steel. I did Tae Bo. I've seen beautiful people sweat near ocean backdrops to the Foo Fighters. I've run 5ks and some-more-ks, though I'm generally not fond of running and will never even try to do a marathon, because I happen to like my flat feet to remain attached to my body. I've run bleachers. I've climbed all the flights of stairs in my office building. I've attempted gymnastics, Pilates and the full fish pose.

And I'm so bored.

I'm bored with my workouts. I alternate between fighting the others for equipment at the tiny workout room sponsored by my housing association (for which I'm very thankful, trust me, but there are only six cardio machines for many, many, MANY people), doing exercise DVDs at home and shoveling snow.

This weekend, there were two bouts of snow shoveling and a trip to Tunnel Voyage (you try hauling your 35-year-old ass two stories up a McDonald's-Playland-style hamster tunnel for an hour and see how you feel). Also, I purchased myself some new workout DVDs and signed up for belly dancing aerobics. (Stay tuned for my month-long series to start on Thursdays this week.)(Here. At this blog.)(Because I feel like it, it's January, and I'm bored.)

I'm not going to review the DVDs, but suffice it to say none of them involve Jillian Michaels or her rock-hard abs. One is a crazy-intense-looking cardio tape and the other is a ballet workout. Ever since the little angel started ballet lessons, I've found myself longing for more leg strength. It would be truly awesome to be able to hold my leg out perpendicular from my body. Because then every time I had a bad day I could hold my leg out and be like YEAH, WORLD, BUT CAN  YOU DO THIS?

So I've done one of the ballet workouts. It consisted of floor barre and standing workouts. It is fortunate I took ballet in my childhood, because the very-fancy-sounding narrator never explained how to do any of the moves, all of which were described by their ballet names in French. And the mute dancers never explained them either or demonstrated them beforehand. Which is why I fell on my face once and nearly lost an eye to the TV console another time. However, after I was done, I realized I had that slow-burn yoga feeling and was genuinely very tired with a fast-beating heart, though I don't actually remember breaking a sweat. Weird.

We'll see if I can walk tomorrow, because it's supposed to snow again on Wednesday. I may have to dig myself out so I can make it to belly dancing.

Every year I have goals. As a mother. As a wife. As a citizen of the world. But I also think for a long time about my goals as a writer.

I know you may sigh and roll your eyes when I trot out that bullshit about having to write down your goals to make them come true, but, um, it's for real. If you don't write them down (or at least think them out well enough to write them down), then you can't break them down into steps that get your butt propelled in the right direction.

I have three major writing goals for 2010. Last year I had two. I accomplished my two last year, but having written them down made me break a cold sweat when I got to July and realized I was in danger of not kicking one out. Writing down those goals puts on a little pressure, even if nobody on God's green earth besides you cares if you accomplish them.

And probably, when it comes to writing goals, nobody but you DOES care. That's what makes it so easy to ignore them.

There were many years when I didn't have writing goals, and in those years, I barely wrote anything. Without something to work toward, writing itself felt like work, a pointless chore that nobody but me cared if I did.

I think my three goals for 2010 are achievable, but they'll require a lot of work. The second and third goal are harder than the first, because I need people besides myself to make them happen. Editors, publishers. That makes it tough. Especially with the publishing industry going through what it's going through. But I have to try -- trying is what makes me a writer and not a hobbyist. Not someone who would like to be a writer, but really never writes. That's what I was when I wasn't working toward writing goals.

Now I'm a writer.