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I'm gonna get all Tony Robbins on you:

Today marks my one-year anniversary of regular exercise. There I was, a month away from my fortieth birthday when I said to myself:

"Self, you need you stop layin' around on the couch eatin' potato chips and watching the jigglefest on Empty V and get your flaccid, flabby butt in shape."

To which I replied "Dagnabbit you're right. I'll start next month on my birthday so it'll be nice and easy to keep track of."

"You'll start today you lazy bastard, or I'll give you a coronary."

"Okay fine, I'll start today."

And with those inspiring words Christopher dropped and did ten pushups and ten sit-ups. A humble beginning it's true, but from then on the isometrics became a daily occurrence. I even dusted off that old dumbbell I had lying around to wake up those pipecleaners I was calling arms.

Ten became twenty and by Mid-June twenty had become sixty. By the time I was drafted for firefighting I was feeling healthier and much more energetic.

But slim and trim wasn't good enough for me any more, so when I returned home in September I started going to the local gymnasium on a daily basis. Initially going seven days a week, over the next few months I tailored it down to four days of weights followed by one day of cardio (including 20 to 30 minutes of running: something I hadn't done since being diagnosed with arthritis at age 22).

Eight months after walking into the gym I am now eighteen pounds heavier and feeling ten years younger. I'm even thinking of entering a fitness competition next winter.

So if a procrastinatin', arthritic, middle-aged pudgesicle like me can do it, then anyone can.

You just have to stop making excuses.

This annoyingly perky message has been brought to you by the good people at Fit Day dot Com.

FitDay: where they take the fun out of eating and replace it with guilt.