You're so vain. You probably think this song is about you.

Vanity. It's an evil beast. While I will admit that going to the gym six days a week has significantly improved my mental and physical well-being, and how I fit into my favorite pair of jeans, there's always that little voice in the back of your head saying, "If only I didn't have that extra jiggle on the inside of my thighs. If only I were a little firmer, a little leaner." Health clubs are filled with mirrors to help you watch your form (and the forms of those around you, let's be real here) and to catch a glimpse of your yoga instructor when you're contorted into some crazy position where you're actually seeing her through the reflection of the mirror that you can sort-of glimpse between the bend in your knee and your elbow that's planted there.

I've been pretty good about going to the gym. I bought the right shoes and the right clothes and met with a trainer to set up a routine. I've cut down on processed foods and have been eating lots of greenery as of late. Very little alcohol (except for a very well-deserved visit to the Tap Room last night) in general and enough water to fill the Chestnut Hill reservoir. I aim for six days a week, most of the time I make it but some weeks I only make five. With the show running the way it is, I usually have my whole morning and early afternoon free. No excuse to stay home from the gym. Yesterday, I cut myself some serious slack and loafed around the house, munching on strawberries and peas and carrots and watching reruns of "Saved By The Bell." So today, when I was still in my jammies at 3pm, I decided to go to the gym and kick my own ass.

I walked in, checked the class schedule and, lo and behold, there was a cardio kickboxing class starting in ten minutes. I say to myself, "this could be fun, and a lot more interesting than your usual 45 minutes of interval hill-climbing torture on the elliptical machine, why not?" One hour later, fully nauseated and unable to breathe normally, having turned the color of a well-cooked tomato, lungs aching and pride smarting like hell, I limped up the stairs of the gym and out into the wonderfully cool evening air. I AM SUCH A SHITHEAD. I have no idea what possessed me to think that I could just walk into a cardio kickboxing class. I lift my weights, I push my reps and I sweat plenty. I up the resistance on the elliptical machine. I take the stairs, all four crazy flights, up to the opera office. I try to walk as much as possible and, generally speaking, I feel that I am more fit now than I ever have been. But I tell you this, dear friends - cardio kickboxing is for the criminally insane. And with that said, I'm going down the street to the Tex-Mex place to eat some pulled pork quesadillas and have a blood orange margarita. Because momma is hurting, and this might be one of those situations where tequila actually makes it better.