This blog entry is instructional in nature...a how NOT to exercise in, well, exercise.

Let's start with some background information. Travel with me in time to November 2007. It has been a year since my son was born, I went crazy and then back to relative sanity, had a baby, nursed him for a year, it was time to write a novel, the holidays were coming, I was as fat as I had ever been in a non-pregnant state. I was ready to get myself and my house fixed up. So I hung up a calendar and wrote down what I was going to do everyday: Drink a bunch of water, not a let a drop of soda pass my lips, do my devotions, work on my novel, and exercise. It was great. I was doing it. I was amazing myself. Okay, so I had a little trouble not drinking Coke, but I was working on it. I lost one pound. The angels were playing their heavenly trumpets for me.

Then I got appendecitis, my right ovary went beserk, I went to the hospital, they kept me there, my baby weaned himself, it hurt to move, no exercise, no sex, no more stars on my calendar.

Now it's January. I have spent the last few months on a Fat Feast and somehow on a steady diet of junk food, soda, and laziness have managed to not lose any weight or begome more healthy. We'll call this my baseline phase. :)

So. That brings me to yesterday... where I sat down and cried and felt sorry for myself and ate potato chips by day and by night vowed to run a 5k in March.