So I hired a personal trainer. That was the source of the self-doubt the other day, by the way. I could hear Math-Rat's voice, suggesting that doing so was less-than his "just get on the bike and ride until your nether parts are blue" strategy.
But see... he knows not of personal trainers, and now I do. Young Aaron the Trainer is the reincarnation of Attila the Hun, and he's going to make a warrior out of me. No, that's not quite right. God love him, I walked in and subjected myself to being weighed and having my fat measured with calipers and my waistline measured, and thought I would expire from the shame. Aaron knows all these numbers. He is practiced at not saying "OH MY GOD" when he sees the results. Moreover, he just grabbed my crafted-during-my-lunch-hour training plan and reviewed it as though it were the Rosetta Stone. He takes me seriously. He is on board to get me through this, but I have to do the work.
He does, however, recognize a lost cause when he sees one. He has these cards that he carries around; each card has an exercise. I'm supposed to do each exercise for a minute; he shuffles the cards again while I'm doing my one-minute. The theory is -it's only a minute. He had me doing those pushups where you push off the ground and clap. Yeah... about that.
For the last one, there was no clapping. None. Just a sad little push-off. And as sometimes happens with random shuffling, that card came up again. Young-Aaron-the Tactful suggested that I just do pushups "seeing as you're likely to break your nose, otherwise." So, he's not beyond some gentle teasing, which I like very much.
I may become strong yet. We shall see.