Back to the gym, my doctor cries! And lo, Sharkboy and I find ourselves working out at the mansweaty, loud, well designed, “try not to look at your sauna-neighbour’s dink tattoo” arena of masculinity called the Downtown Y. We’ve been twice since the ink has dried on our goofy pass pictures and I’ve been going easy but despite holding back, my arms, shoulders and manboobies are pained by all the lactic acid I made this weekend. My hand slides across the desk to my tea, instead of reaching for it.

It’s been 3 years since I’ve been working out and I find that I am sleeping deeper despite not being able to lift my arms to turn myself over. Also, my general mood has changed: I dont want to bring a high powered rifle into the office and I actually welcome work on my desk this morning (still hate the place and have every intention of being someplace different inside two months). Most importantly, I dont feel that working out is a chore. It’s goal driven (200lbs here I come!) and fun, especially with Sharkboy there.

Last night, after Tom had got his million, Kobe paraded the image of his daughter out in front of the cameras like a Joan Crawford news reel, and we were snuggled deep into Sharkboy’s couch, I looked up at him and realized that I had a real satisfying weekend. “I love you,” I said smiling.

He jabs me in my aching pecs. OW!