Because I want Michelle Obama arms.

Now that the cat is out of the bag about Noah considering joining a military reserve (Navy, Air Force and National Guard are all in the running, and FYI for those who don't know, none of them require him to quit his job or move), I can tell you that he's become something of a physical specimen in anticipation of basic training.

Full disclosure: I've lost nearly 10 pounds in the last 12 weeks. Noah, on the other hand, has lost 15. Though I may be working my way toward being a dish once again, Noah is already at Herculean. So. That's great for my ego.

I began going to Weight Watchers with my mom when I realized that the 15 pounds I gained after returning to pre-baby weight were probably because I was still eating like a pregger/nursing mom, even though I was neither. What I was, was exhausted. Also avaricious. Fighting for an equal portion while pregnant (I always and probably delusionally accused Noah of taking the lion's share) became a personal creed.

Anyway, I'm nearly back to where I want to be, but in attempt at reaching true fitness I've decided to ramp up my exercise regimen. Which until two days ago comprised walking, and walking a little bit farther. Noah came up with the brilliant plan to put me on his boot camp prep routine of push-ups and sit-ups. This sounded sort of goodish, except for the part about push-ups and sit-ups.

"What do I do first?" I asked.

"Just do as many push-ups as you can in one minute, and we'll go from there."

Turns out when it comes to push-ups I max out at zero. As soon as my boobles touched ground (which, post-baby, they do much sooner than they would have before), I experienced total muscle failure.

"Okay, well how about you do some modified push-ups, and we'll just mark this week's record with an asterisk?" Noah suggested helpfully.

My modified push-ups included leaning against a bench instead of being parallel to the floor, as well as only bending my arms partway. And by "partway" I mean "less than an economy airline seat's angle of recline."

When Noah announced I was just seconds away from the end of my Minute of Shame, I kicked it into full gear finished with three airline-seat-angle push-ups.

"Did you see that surge at the end?" I asked triumphantly. He did. "So how many did I do?"

"I didn't really count," Noah replied.

"Why not? You said we'd just mark this week's numbers with a star."

"No," he explained, "special push-ups get only a star."

In order for me to feel some infinitesimal sense of accomplishment, we've changed up my workout routine by using exercise bands to build up some muscle in lieu of push-ups for a few weeks. In an especial show of wisdom, Noah has abandoned the drill sergeant tack and instead has taken up a softer philosophy toward my training, which now includes frequent celebrations of mediocrity and mollycoddling.

Lean and mean, baby. Lean and mean.