Today, after a long estrangement, my treadmill and I made up. However, 30 minutes, 2.5 km and 250 calories later (what sadistic demon from hell designed that little calculation?), I'm rethinking the reconciliation.

I hobbled upstairs with the ipod still glued to my ears (sweat + mousse = superglue), and the music was still so good - damn you Collective Soul, GNR and Bleeker Ridge - I dusted off my yoga mat to do some bastardized pilates work.

Lola, my brain-cell deficient chihuahua, was convinced that I was down for some cuddle time...until I realized that my weight ball was still buried in the closet under my summer sandals. She was just about the right size (and handy) so I used her for the overhead work. She is apparently not so enamoured of this game, but any attention is better than none, judging by the giddy wagging of her back half once I let her go and crawled up off the floor.

And so now I limp to the shower, truly understanding the addictive power of exercise endorphins. I feel exhausted, yet empowered. I can't wait to do it again tomorrow. However, by then I'm sure I'll just want to stab myself in the head with a sharp stick.