I have not written much lately because I have been busy making out with my Lifetime Fitness membership. I worship that place, and I cannot believe that I did not catch on to this exercising thing long ago.

They have a lovely child center there, complete with a gi-normous climbing structure and rows of computers on which the little ones can play games to their little hearts' content.

AND they can stay in there for two hours a day! Not that I ever leave them there for the full two hours. But there is glory in the knowledge that I could. If I wanted to. Just because.

It's like having a babysitter for two hours a day at the bargain-basement price of six dollars per month, per child! Crikey, I'm starting to sound like a spokeswoman. But seriously, folks, you can't beat it. And I'm exercising, and that can never be a bad thing, right?

So I had to go and have a personal trainer conduct a "body-age assessment" on me. What this assessment seeks to determine is how old your body is in relation to your actual age. He had to use those caliper, pincer deals to see how much fat I had on my body. Slightly depressing. But I suppose it gives me something to work toward.

I also had to do as many sit-ups as I could in a minute. The friendly, unsuspecting personal trainer held my feet while I did the sit-ups. Suddenly, I had a flashback to freshman gym class in high school. I had an extremely untimely attack of, well, for lack of a better word, flatulence. I had to feign fatigue and stop doing the damn sit-ups so that I didn't have an accidental discharge.

Friendly fire, if you will.

The good news is, my body wasn't any older than my actual age of 32. He told me that, best case scenario, I can be 23 again. Or at least, my body can be.

I was hoping for 18, but I guess I would take 23.