Some people are practically born gym fanatics. They come out of the womb holding mini dumbbells and a stopwatch. Not me. I was the career woman who had neither the time nor the desire for such sweaty rendezvous. In fact, until my daughter, Ariel, was born, my tennis shoes had never set foot inside a gym. But it wasn't the post-pregnancy pounds that changed my mind ‑- it was the post-pregnancy insanity.

Babies ought to come with disclaimers: Will cause intense sleep deprivation and loss of common sense. Feeding, changing and staying up all night with a crying infant was tougher than I ever anticipated. My husband was on the road most days and I lived too far away from family to get regular help. On one especially exhausting day, I was showering (with the curtain open so I could watch the baby in her bouncy seat), and I got the vague feeling that something wasn't right. Then I looked down and saw the problem ‑- I was still wearing my underpants! That was the final straw; I was going to get a break, no matter what I had to do.

Salvation came in the form of our local health club. Now, just because the club had all kinds of workout equipment, that did not mean I had any intention of actually exercising. No, I was there strictly for the nursery, that blessed place that accepted children as young as eight weeks old. I'd simply sign in and tell them where I could be found, and they'd come get me if Ariel got fussy. Then I'd have time for myself ‑- a shower and a nap on one of the weight benches, which looked welcoming with their cushy vinyl upholstery. It didn't take long until I was an enthusiastic, if sweat-free, gym attendee.