Exercise.

When we went mini-golfing last weekend, Marley raced after her slowly rolling ball at each hole, bent over sideways, and swung the toe of her club at the moving target, only to begin the process all over again when it ricocheted in another direction. I kept yelling, "Hold it like a field hockey stick! Like a field hockey stick!" That didn't really help.

High school field hockey double sessions start in about a month, and I'm a junior varsity coach this year. [True story: Last summer I told a former Smith College field hockey teammate that I was glad to be coaching at the eighth grade level because I didn't want to deal with the pressure of the varsity team. She was about to leave with the National Democratic Institute to help Thailand write its constitution. Literally. Helping a nation-state. Write a document establishing its government's principles and laws. So, pressure? Another Smith friend is Al Franken's Communications Director. And I'm having a hard time getting it together to order my Snapfish pictures before the coupon code my sister sent me expires. Jesus H.]

Because I am (truly) excited about the idea of sweating while racing around with a stick to demonstrate drills during the eighty degree preseason, I've been making a sort of effort to get back in shape. Even though I can fit into some of my pre-pregnancy clothes, I am still a weakling who often pants at the top of the stairs. Over ten years ago, I proudly commanded my friends, "Poke my quad! Poke my quad!" at the end of my college preseason. If I flexed, there were visible muscles to be proud of, proof of physical exertion. I never wanted to be skinny; I always wanted to look like Gabrielle Reese. (And she ended up with Laird Hamilton, and I will watch surfing documentaries for hours to see him crouch on a board for five minutes.) But anyhow, I don't want anybody poking anything these days. So when a friend complimented me on reaching my fighting weight the other day, it was nice, but I'm not ready for fighting just yet. And when I started to say that it must be my mom's good genes, I started laughing instead because her other genes, the Alzheimer's E4s detected in a blood test, mean I could lose my mind as easily as a few measly pounds. I'm doing what I can, though, working through a crossword when I've got a few minutes and shuffling through my neighborhood with the Jackson Five's "Can You Feel It" on my iPod when I've got a few minutes more. That song is fantastic. I would totally want it included in my warm-up music if I were ever on a team again. My team these days consists of Todd, Bean, and Toot, and the closest thing we've got to a soundtrack includes my warbling falsetto version of "Once Upon a Dream," and Marley's original sing-song "Wipe My Bum!" drifting out from the bathroom.