Bushed.

It's not what you think. My friend Subbu and I were subjected to what our friend and trainer, Benny, happily calls a "conditioning workout." That's a workout where the local high school band director can darn sure here the sound of a bass drum thumping furiously, but cannot control the tempo because the sound is emanating from your chest cavity. And you are certain it will never settle down.

Curious thoughts swirl about your cranium during these workouts. "This bench feels like a gurney. I'll just lay here until the ambulance comes." "I wonder if Benny is eating regularly. I don't remember ticking him off." "I didn't even know that muscle existed." "Must. Have. Water."

Some things have startling clarity now: I have never met a pushup I could like or I could do. Squatting and standing up is natural, and natural things hurt. Exercising while unfit is like exercising with a friend, and carrying him in front of me the whole time. The middle of a workout is a terrible time to remember that I am supposed to bring bottled water and a towel with me. It is also consistently the time at which that memory makes its appearance.

So I'm a little ragged right now. Bushed. Beat. Fatigued. Wrung out. Sore. But healthy, by golly. I am healthy. Like an ox. Very much like an ox. I'm hitched to something I can't see, told where to go and what to do, pulling too much weight (my fault, that), and expected to eat grain to improve the situation. If I see a goad on Thursday, I'm chucking it in, folks.

Until then...