"So Vegas, huh, people? I love your saying - What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And that is why when I leave here, I will no longer have herpes."

So I'm pretty sure the saddest moment of my life was this morning at dawn, when I was lying in my bed, very much awake and thinking about exercising. Finally, deciding to get up and go for a run, I start rummaging through my drawers for shorts and socks and the sports bra that I think my mom bought me in grade 8 --- and nada. I have no shorts. The closest thing I have to a sports bra is a normal bra that has shed its underwires in many tumbles through the dryer. All my socks are nylon. Even worse - in terms of footwear, it's a toss-up between a holey pair of pink Converse hi-tops and gold flats. I opt for the Converse, harass my mother for cotton socks and shorts (at 5:30 AM), and I'm out the door.

Walk out, jog for three blocks, stop, double over in heaving gasps, and continue walking for the next song and a half. Try to jog again, but barely make it through the first chorus. Me, flailing my arms, iPod hitting against my tree-trunk thighs, sweating out a lake, DYING. It was ridiculous. About halfway into the run, I was ready to find a nice green patch of grass and lay down in it forever. I saw elderly people speed-walking across the street with tighter buttocks than I and ultimately lost every silent race I staged with them in my head. That was how bad it was. And now, at 7:55, after drinking a gallon of water, my ass is planted to this arm chair, feeling the burn, and is not ever going to get up.

Working out is not as fun as it's cracked up to be.