I. CANNOT. WALK.  I curse Jillian Michaels and all that woman stands for.

You know how you just sorta stop caring every once in a while and you do what you want? And you seem to be getting away with it because all your jeans still zip up and the scale doesn’t seem to budge? And you know how suddenly one day that zipper seems to be stuck and then you step on the scale as gently as possible only to leap off backwards yelling a cuss word that rises up out of your now suddenly jellicious belly that would cause your God-fearing grandmother to slap you right across your filthy, carb-eating mouth?

Yeah. That kinda happened to me on Monday.

So after absorbing the fact that I’ve done 9 pounds worth of damage since the start of the new year — yes, I said NINE POUNDS — I went straight to my DVD collection. I was torn — Should I go with the Brazil Butt Lift of the Jillian Michaels Fat Burning Workout. I figured I need to worry about burning off 9 pounds of fat before I start lifting my derriere, so I popped Jillian in and pressed play.

I made it about 10 minutes.

jmI woke up Tuesday feeling okay. By lunchtime, I was starting to feel a bit stiff. By 4pm, I was walking Fred Sanford-esque into my chiropractor’s office begging for a massage. They’re going to try to work me in Wednesday.

Meantime, I’m literally weeping as Emma Kelly keeps calling me from the other side of the house to “Come here, Mommy!” because it’s an  “emergency” situation. So I hobble back and forth repeatedly across a few hundred square feet to find out these emergencies range from picking my favorite member of the Brady Bunch family to guessing whether Isabelle from kindergarten lives near a park.

Again, I curse Jillian Michaels and all that woman stands for. But I’m down 3 pounds. So there’s that.