I can hardly move
Yesterday morning, I ventured to my local leisure centre to get those endorphins pumping with an hour of cardio kickbox.
I have a really irrational fear about fitness classes. I dread turning up and being the only person there. My nightmare is just me and some uber-fit, foxy, early 20-something instructor - them yelling instructions at me over the banging techno tunes while I sweat, wheeze and pant my way through the longest hour of my life.
I was a bit late, so as I rushed up to the doors, the banging tunes had already started - they must just be getting going on the warm-up.
But when I opened the door, it was just me. The nightmare had come true. Just me and a female instructor who looked like she'd just come off the set of Prisoner Cell Block-H. Just me, "The Warden", the banging techno - and a set of boxing gloves and pads.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll partner you."
Oh. My. God.
I was expecting a Thai-Bo style workout - girlie aerobics with extra kicks and punches. Instead I was about to embark on sixty minutes of sparring with a woman who looked as if she'd seen a fair few fights in her time.
I wanted to run away, but we were straight into the warm-up, then on to the toughest work-out I've ever had in my life.
Punch. Kick. Harder. Sprint. Jab. Jump. Run. Skip. Squat. Sprint. Faster.
For one whole hour.
Today, it really hurts.