Are there extra bonus points when you leave your house in the dark (and the rain) to get your ass kicked by your trainer?

There should be.

Also, here’s my tip of the day. When Kim the Trainer asks you how much pain you were in the day after your workout, your answer should be something along the lines of ermahgerd, Kim, I had the spaghetti arms and jelly legs for two days straight. I couldn’t walk the stairs or sit on the toilet seat without geriatrically holding on to something. Your answer should not, in fact, be something along the lines of ermahgerd, Kim, it was only mostly painful and I was totally fine. Because you know what happens? OH YES. She works you like you have never worked before—to the begging-for-mercy point. Sitting in a squat and holding it for 15 seconds? Not my favorite. We can add this activity to the list that includes burpees and squats. The list is growing—hopefully, somewhere in all of this agony, my yiddishamama (totally trademarking this phrase) thighs are shrinking.

“Come on Ali, you really only need your fingers to do your job!”

Oh Kim. I kind of hate that you are so right. This job of mine, it really does only require fingers. And luckily, there is no such thing as a finger squat because I’m exercising my right to work my first full day of work in October. I know what you are thinking—it’s October 23rd, Ali, how is this possible? But I will tell you! Between Jewish holidays and trips to Ireland (it’s call the wahmbulence time!) and Blissdom Canada conferences and PA days from school and dentist appointments and allergy appointments there has not been one full day. Until today.

I recently tweeted about there being nothing more humbling than putting on a pair of freshly washed and dried jeans. You probably missed it. As I mentioned in my Blissdom session, Twitter moves pretty fast. It’s not that you aren’t witty and brilliant and prolific, it’s that not everyone is actually ON Twitter when you have your moment of brilliance.

Well, here it is again, in all of its humbly glory.

Oh, you’ve done this before? Fist bump, sister. You’ve done the squaty lie-down-on-the-bed-to-make-the-whole-zipper-thing-happen too? Solidarity, yo. 

But I found something that gives freshly washed and super tight jeans a run for their ego-killing money.

TRYING ON EXERCISE CLOTHING.

Tank tops, specifically.

I swear to god, you guys, how does a normal person who is not a) in Cirque du Soleil or b) an Olympic gymnast or c) a wizard and/or ninja get in and out of those workout tank tops? You know, the ones that have that extra built-in brassiere? And it’s always when you are halfway in to the great try-on experiment when you have that panicky realization that this tank top is probably not coming off without some scissory handiwork. It always looks like it’s going to fit before you put it on. Sure! And it’s got lycra and spandex and all of the stretchy goodness—it is sure to fit.

It is not sure to fit. It never is.

I have so many questions. Does it go over the head? Do you pull it up from the bottom? What about that strange bra shelf that never seems to end up in the right place. Why is getting dressed so complicated?

I can only turn my body into some sort of circus performer for so long before it’s all, “Oh Ali, you do not bend this way dammit.” WHY ARE THERE NO ZIPPERS? Also, why is it a fact that what lululemon yoga pants do for my derriere (READ: They are magic ass pants), workout tank tops do the exact opposite and highlight every single pinchable inch on my body? Why? Why? Highlighting back fat and/or spare tires is not a motivator for me at all, you know.

Usually, I already feel like I had a full workout just trying to get into my tank top. Before my actual workout. So that’s two workouts in one. (Bonus or punishment? You decide!)

I guess, though, that it means I should be getting doubley rewarded, then, for going out in the rain today. Right? RIGHT? Two tubes of cookie dough for lunch, then?