Treadmill: 1, Melissa: 0

LOL-Cat knows what I'm talking about.

      Last night, feeling fat from a (perhaps overly) decadent dinner of baguette, fois gras, brie, and white wine, I decided to go on a run. I suppose it was my experiment to see how many different ways my body could hate me. The answer? Many. 

          What's bad is going on your first run in two months and feeling pathetic, dehydrated, out of shape, and horrendously sweaty. Maybe, for some reason, your mouth starts to taste like white wine. What's worse is when you realize that the stupid European treadmill is set to kilometers per hour, not miles per hour; so you're actually running even slower than you thought, and still gasping for air like a dying fish. 

          "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!" I felt my body grumbling two minutes into the first mile. Just after the 20 minute mark, I'd say it had escalated into a steady, enraged, scream. 

           "Shut up, body!" I thought back. "We are going to be thin and beautiful, with abs of steel! So, suck it!"

           Venomously embittered, my body decided to play its trump card, and I got a huuuuuuge cramp, not just anywhere, but on both sides of my butt. (If people on the floor below me heard the sound of a dying chimpanzee, rest assured, it was only me, trying to work out in some misguided attempt at la sante.) 

          Not only do my abs look just about the same and as un-steely as ever, but I now have a strong Pavlovian-styled aversion to muscat, which may take a while to go away. I hobbled back to my apartment limping with both legs, and decided that next time, I'm just going to stick to the couch.

One of the last times I was in really great shape, for my birthday. I brought the picture to France as motivational material, but lately it has just been something I stare at mournfully while I shove pain au chocolat in my mouth. :-\