I kind of just want to sit around and eat. Could be because I've got a container of homemade chocolate chip cookies calling to me from the counter. But more likely it's the dang snow outside. The calendar says shorts weather is just around the corner, but my thighs and the weather are screaming that ain't gonna happen anytime soon.

Yeah, I've got a gym membership. Yeah, I should walk the dog. But here I am, sitting on my rump roast, thinking about cramming one more killer cookie into my mouth. Why is it so hard to exercise? Oh yeah. That's right. BECAUSE I HATE IT.

You didn't know you'd be tuning into a rant today, did you? I suspect, though, that I'm not the only hater out there.

Here's the deal . . . thinking about slipping into shorts and tank tops without any cottage cheese type lumps or serious muffinish overhangs is oh so much easier than doing the hard work to achieve that body -- which is eerily like writing. Except for the cellulite. What I mean is that it's easier to think about writing a novel than committing the actual deed.

So. There's the ugly truth. The only way out of this lack of exercise pickle is through, one sweaty sit-up at a time, just like the only way to make it to "The End" of a novel is one word at a time. Wait a minute . . . pickle?

I think there's a hamburger calling my name. Smashburger, here I come, baby.

Oh, quit your judging. I'll jog there.