Hello, treadmill. We meet again.

I'm on day two of returning to the gym and I'm already sore. I have to keep reminding myself of the benefits, besides the obvious zombie-fleeing reasons.

Heart health? Better mood? Requiring less booze before I feel the effects of drunkenness?

All excellent reasons.

For a couple of years I met with a personal trainer once or twice a week and that was extremely useful. For one, I learned how to use all the scary machines. For two, I learned I could push myself a lot further than I ever thought possible.

(For proof, see the blog entry where I drew myself using a particularly hated piece of gym equipment.)

Enough about my superior MS Paint skills. Let's check in about writing.

Okay. Well, I'm writing. I'm at 740 words for the day and counting. My hands are cold and I'm thinking of putting on another pot of coffee. I'm wearing bright orange cut-off cotton gloves I bought at Daiso. So I will never lose track of my hands.

Now you know everything.

There will be a quiz.