New Year's Resolutions?

Mood: Stabby (Cigna insurance and my new Nook have combined forces to drive me to the brink of insanity)
What I'm Listening to: Sounds of Nature on AOL radio (also, the occasional banging and stomping noises from the apartment upstairs)

"We need to move more - get some exercise because we're out.of.shape"

This is what I said to hubs a few weeks ago. He smiled, nodded and agreed in the most noncommittal, vaguest way possible that we should definitely do that.

We I talked about getting a membership at the local Rec Center because they have a walking track, swimming pool and tons of weight/cardio equipment to help us in our quest for fitness. Hubs smiled, nodded and agreed again - until it came time to actually, you know, go and do those things.

See, here's the thing. Hubs and I are basically sedentary people - particularly in the winter. I mean, we'd like to go to the rec center but it's across town and would require us going out into the snowy sub-zero temps of an Illinois winter. This? Is not really in line with our winter hibernation mode.

So, we decided on Plan B.

Meet plan B:

Now, I know, you're thinking "big deal, it's just a video game" but trust me - this is not just any video game. This is a one stop torture device masquerading as a harmless video game. It kicks my butt four times a week using innocent sounding activities and games along with a personal trainer to help guide me.

By "personal trainer" I mean a video game character - kind of like Mario only less friendly and way less princess obsessed - whose job it is to whip my butt into shape. I hate her. Seriously. Loathe. She demands that I move faster, push harder and do things that are physically impossible because I'm not a two dimensional 90 pound video game generated stick insect.

Thankfully this game comes with a heart rate monitor that displays my heart rate right on the screen so I'll know the exact moment that my heart attack - slash- stroke begins. What would be even more helpful? If the device would trigger a call to 911 when I collapse on the floor in a quivering sweaty mass of goo at the end of a workout.