OK, Jim-not-Gym killed me yesterday morning. I hurt today. I hurt before we were finished the workout. My gym is located underground: you walk down 4 flights to hit reception, and then another 2 to get the gym floor and the locker room. There is no lift. Since I was already beginning to ache by the time we finished, I thought, "Hmm. Can I possibly shower, do my hair, put on my makeup, and get ready for work BEFORE my legs seize?" Concluding that the answer was "probably not," I decided to get myself up and out before I was walking like a pensioner, and shower at my office.

Mission accomplished, but, as predicted, as the day wore on, I was progressively walking a little bit slower. A night out at Callooh Callay in Shoreditch with friends, drinking punch out of a gramophone (no, really-there are pictures, I'll post 'em), and I wasn't feeling any pain. However, during the night, when I woke myself up trying to turn over, I knew today wasn't going to be pretty, and it wasn't. I screamed climbing into my shower (I have one of those typically English elevated tub showers that you really do have to climb into when you're 5 foot 2, like me). I screamed climbing out of my shower. At work, I had to make a little noise whenever I got up or sat down, because it hurt. I popped alotta Advil.

Really, I have no one to blame but myself for working rather than working out over this past year. Ironically, a fitness DVD I'd ordered after my friend Heather blogged about it, "The 30 Day Shred," arrived today. I think that one will be shelved until tomorrow...I'm shredded enough as it is.