This year, my husband and I have made the commitment to get into shape. While we aren’t considered “fat” right now, the shape we are in resembles two adults on the couch at night eating peanut butter and chocolate with a can of Reddi Whip on the side. I’ve been blaming my inactivity on my numerous pregnancies and my recent delivery. Frankly, it still sounds like a reasonable excuse to me. I believe that the impressive accomplishments of my womb entitle me to at least a truckload of chocolate while the kids are in bed.

But no more.

We are committed to taking better care of our health.

I proved my commitment tonight, when for the first time in a year-and-a-half, I decided to go out for a jog. I prefer exercising at night so neighborhood people can’t see me and holler “Hey! Why are you lying on my lawn?”

So, with Lindsey Stirling’s techno-violin pulsing through the earbuds, I took off down the street. I quickly found my stride and felt the rhythm as my feet pounded the pavement in the new Nikes I got for Christmas. I embraced the dark streets; wet from the day’s rain and glistening orange from the streetlights. I ran. I breathed. I made it down the block before I nearly puked.

Despite my enthusiasm, my bladder did not adjust quickly to my new recreation. It’s cool though. I’m sure every postpartum mom has asked herself if it was the running that triggered a bout of incontinence, or if that was just tears streaming from her under-worked thighs.

There is an ugly truth about jogging when out of shape:

We wog. Wogging is part jogging, mixed with fast paced walking. We only do the actual jogging when we see neighbors we know, or cars going by, because we have an image to maintain. But when we turn the corner, we slow into a brisk power walk that makes us look like we’re intentionally out for a walk, and not like all our bowels just fell out onto the concrete back at the corner. (Good bye, bowels. I’ll miss you.)

The husband and I are so serious about this health thing, that we’ve been juicing. That means that we walk through the produce aisle and pick out exotic and ridiculous foods that any person in their right mind wouldn’t dream of actually eating, and try to eek out what’s considered to be liquid. This juice diet is supposed to detox and cleanse our bodies, reset our metabolisms and provide copious amounts of nourishment. It’s working really well because it’s also cleaning-out our checking account.

Along with the juice, we are guzzling down gallons of water. This results in a poor night’s sleep due to frequent bathroom trips. But I suppose multiple toilet trips in the dead of night is a reasonable consequence for knocking back the whole of Lake Mead.

This, folks, is how our new year has begun. We’re hungry.

And as my brain slowly fades in-and-out while toxins make their way out of my body; as my vision blurs and my body goes into starvation mode from the cannibalism of my muscles; as my eyes leave me with hallucinations of burritos the size of bed mattresses,

I hear three whiny voices begging, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommmyyy, can we play Caaandy Laaaaaand?”

Whatever. Any game is fine as long as it doesn’t involve wogging.

Just don’t pitch a fit if I pick up your game board and lick it.