Just do...what exactly?

When not discussing whether Spanx comes in bullet-proof shades with local police, ignoring my irritating cubicle intern, explaining to numerous people that no, I hadn't actually expected Alex to come down with a serious case of committed relationship with somebody who's not me, and yes, I had still been holding out hope for him for reasons I can't begin to explain other than to say I'm kind of an idiot, and/or silently restraining myself from becoming stabby every time some well-meaning person has said some variation of it's inevitible/for the best/bound to happen/just a sign the right one is still out there for you, holding staring contests with my psychiatrist, pursuing a misguided attraction to men in uniform and hoping against all odds that the chemicals in my brain will just behave already...

...I've been tracking Weight Watchers points.

It's working, but I'm not about to bore my six devoted readers with details about Skinny Cow brand ice cream sandwiches as an effective meal replacement. I will say however, that I'm already worried for when the program stops working.

Apparently it's quite normal to reach a plateau. At some point my cleavage will stop getting smaller and for little or no reason, the numbers on the scale will stick.

A sure-fire way to kick-start myself into shrinking some more will be increasing my exercise, which means I might have a problem. It's not that I don't like exercise...OK fine. I don't like exercise.

I hate physical activity for the sake of physical activity. Strangely sex for the sake of sex is still perfectly acceptable, which just goes to show I'm very nuanced.

If I'm hiking up a mountain for the view, I'm happy. If I'm hiking up a mountain to increase my heart rate, I'm most likely sitting on a rock refusing to go any further.

Running is acceptable because all I'm really doing is chasing the endorphin high that happens every five runs or so. Kick-boxing worked well for me because I was learning skills I could file under "completely badass."

My sister has been raving about hot yoga, and she actually just completed a 30 day hot yoga challenge. I don't even register a bowel movement every day never mind showing up to grunt and sweat in a room so hot I would consider it a fairly realistic preview of my eventual after-life, and doing so every day for a month.

The problem with yoga and my beloved kick-boxing is the cost. Becoming a homeowner has made me poor, and if it isn't free, it isn't happening.

All I've done so far in terms of physical effort is walking, which may not be enough down the line. Friends have suggested swimming, but my version of swimming is unlikely to shave off the pounds.

(Stealing a water noodle from some random child and floating around in the deep end where I can't hear said random child screaming is unlikely to burn calories. Or so I've heard.)

It's not that I can't swim. I can swim perfectly well - I just refuse to. Swimming is the only physical activity I feel can actually murder me if I get tired.

If I'm running and my lungs give out or I get a cramp, I stop running. If I'm swimming and the same thing happens I could end up being dragged from the bottom of the pool, only to have some 16 year old acne-ridden lifeguard bring me back to life while a small crowd gathers and wonders why I didn't shave my bikini line that day if I knew I'd be swimming.

Speaking of which, I also resent physical activities I have to shave anything for, unless those activities involve a bedroom, a bottle of wine and three positions illegal in Missisipi.

Friends have suggested I go to Aquafit, and I gave this a try a few years ago. For three weeks I jumped up and down in the shallow end and made tiny circles in the water with my arms, all the while seemingly surrounded by the cast of Cocoon.

I never got tired, and it was hard to tell whether I was working up a sweat what with the whole being immersed in water thing. I gave it up when we were asked to form a conga line as part of the work-out, because there's only so much humiliation one can take while one is also wearing a tankini.

So I'm not a shining example for health and fitness...or health and safety...or healthy relationships...or just...health. If Skinny Cow Ice Cream is looking for a brand ambassador though, I'm probably available.