The best part about working out is this mellow, contented mood it puts me in. I'm tired, but I feel good. I'm in loose cotton leggings and a denim shirt and a ponytail, crosslegged in my desk chair, with the Push Stars' "Meet Me at the Fair" on the mp3 player and my cat curled up in her cat bed next to my desk. Aside from periodic crashing sounds from the apartment upstairs (Misha seems to rearrange the furniture every week), all is right in my world, right now.

Well yeah, the bills, but AT&T won't call this late, I don't think.

I had such a hard time overcoming inertia today. When I woke up, my face, hands, and feet were puffy from edema, which essentially means that my circulatory system wasn't doing its job and fluid had pooled in my extremities. In English: I looked really strange. Stranger than usual, anyway. This has happened to me before, it's fairly common in thyroid patients, but no way did I want anyone to see me with my face all rearranged.

I had to take out the trash, though. I wore sunglasses and a baseball cap and walked fast.

By the time my monster face depuffed into relative normality, I'd lost the momentum from the trash run and didn't feel like moving. I moved anyway. I went up to City Sports and picked up some lightweight Danskin sweats and a little gym bag, because I'm tired of arranging sneakers in a backpack. The Danskins, of course, are too long. I'll either roll them up or cut them off. The hell with it.

It's been a while since I checked out serious sports clothes for women, like brand-name running gear and so on. That shit is expensive. Adidas lightweight running pants, lined, $68. Who buys this stuff?

Anyway, I still couldn't seem to get on top of it when I got to the gym. Cardio was just grim. The batteries in my Walkman were history and for reasons unknown to me the gym stereo was off. I started calling myself names when I was tempted to quit, and that got me through. And then the endorphins kicked in. Floating. Aw, yeah.

And here I am. I am all kinds of tired. It's all good.