I started working out again this week for the first time in maybe a year or a year and a half. Don't clap. I didn't go because I have a renewed interest in my health, or because I'm trying to get an early jump on a New Year's resolution, or because I care again about looking good with my shirt off. Actually, I'm doing it because a health club representative who visited our office last month bamboozled me into signing a one-year membership. A $130-a-month membership. For a year. For a damn health club membership.

I'd say it's one of the worst decisions I've made since I moved to New York, and it gets worse for me every day because I keep thinking of the different things I could've bought instead with that money.

Like, you wanna know how many burritos you can buy in a month with $130? More than 20, maybe one every day. And what would YOU rather have, a burrito a day or access to a Precor machine?

Frick!

I've been trying to go to the club as often as possible, you know, so I can sort of get my money's worth, but so far I'm getting destroyed. I've gone three times. Not three times a week, just three times. It's..... it's pretty pathetic.

You can clap now.