Just dying, no big.

I have started going to my gym again.

Between Jerusalem and my surgery, it's been a good nine months (to the day, actually) since I've suited up and had a legit work out*, so, needless to say, it pretty much killed me.

By the time the warm up was over I had just about died. There I sat, a pathetic pile of weakness, desperate for breath and hydration as I felt the sweat taking over. I had to drink. I had to rest. I had to breathe. Whatever I did, I had to put a stop to this insanity.

But the sad, sad reality was that I was then required to get my derrière off the ground and push myself farther (further?) than I even knew was possible during the day's actual work out. 

Once the insanity had ended and the endorphin high was starting to set in, I realized that it was barely enough to make up for the pain during the actual workout.  Can a good feeling really make up for a feeling that bad?

At this point, a day later, my burning muscles are wondering what kind of torture has been inflicted upon them, and I must admit my brain is starting to wonder the same thing. Every time I move I feel pain in muscles whose existence I am just discovering. My legs, my arms, my armpits? What?

Basically the point of this is to say that, if you happen to see me around campus attempting to descend a flight of stairs, feel free to laugh openly. 

*I absolutely positively hate the term "work out"