Something happened today. Something I wasn’t expecting. Something. . . painful. Let me set the scene:

It’s the middle of the afternoon. There’s cilantro-lime chicken in the crockpot, which is making the apartment smell like food, which in turn is making me want to do anything but exercise. After reading a few extra blog posts and pinning a couple workout-motivational images on Pinterest, I was ready to try one of the new exercise DVDs I had gotten as a late Christmas present.

I didn’t feel like doing cardio or kickboxing, but the “sculpt-ilates” video sounded just about right. Cue the surprisingly healthy/normal-looking fitness expert (Robyn) on the TV screen. We start out slowly, doing some nice stretches and a little stepping to get the heart-rate up.

Robyn makes sure to remind the beginners to follow Kelsey over to her left, who’s doing slightly modified versions of the exercises, just to prevent injury.

Well, thanks, Robyn, but I’m cool. Sure, I’ve never done this DVD before, and I’ve probably done Pilates maybe twice before in my life, but it’s pretty much just like Yoga, right? No offense, Kelsey, but I’m good.

Let’s fast-forward a little bit…and by a little bit, I mean 4 minutes. As we’re still in warm-up mode, I bend down and do some kind of “saw” move. . .and I feel a little bit of a twinge in my right thigh.

Huh. Interesting.

Next, we bend down and point our fingers towards our toes and. . .

Ow, ow, owowowowowow! Son of a—

(Insert hushed swearing so as not to wake the sleeping Charlie.)

That would be about the time my body was like, “Oh, heeeeeeeey there. Remember me? I couldn’t help but notice that you’re being a big old jerk to my friend Right Thigh over here. Poor Right Thigh isn’t a 22 year old Right Thigh anymore, and would probably appreciate it if you sucked up your pride and followed Kelsey over to Robyn’s left. BUT since you were a jerk today, you can just go ahead and sit today’s exercise out. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

And, grudgingly, I guess I have.

Now, before I hear a chorus of “Oh, pshaw! You’re not old! You’re 26 for God’s sake! Quit whining! Poppycock! Balderdash! Rabble rabble rabble!”, I’d like to just say, “Hey. Just let me have this 5 minutes of bitching. My leg hurts.”

My poor, poor leg is getting older. I am getting older and since I haven’t been a super-athletic workout junkie for the past . . .well, ever. . . I should probably listen to the lady when she says, “Beginners, follow Kelsey over here.”

Am I old? No. I know that. Am I getting older? Well, shyeah. (The “sh” in front of “yeah” is intentional. Say it out loud with a little bit of a 16 year old ‘tude. You’ll get it.)

Everyone reaches one of those humbling moments when they have to come to terms with the fact that they no longer fit into the “nubile young teen” category. This was mine.

That’s it. That’s really all I’ve got. Charlie’s about to wake up and I’m about ready to dig into my crockpot. I need you guys to make me a promise, though. If you’re experiencing even a hint of uncertainty, just give in and follow Kelsey. There’s no shame in being able to stand upright and finish your exercise.