My youngest daughter plays soccer. She has returned to the sport after an unfortunate incident in 2006. During her first game, of her first-ever season playing soccer, she went in as goalie. Then she got hit in the face with a soccer ball. She sat on the sidelines the rest of the game refusing to play. Four years later, she got excited about it again. She is having a blast. Me, not so much.

I had this idea in my head of sitting on the bleachers with other moms talking about our awesome children and not caring that some of us were homemakers and others were career moms. I thought youth soccer would unite us. It started out this way. I learned all the other kid's names and cheered for them as much as I did my own daughter. I spoke with moms about their child's teachers and we chatted about the weather and laughed at the comedy of errors happening on the field.

Last night ruined all of that for me. Last night, I sat next to a woman I have known for a few years. She is a nice person. I like her, but last night just sitting next to her made me feel fat and ugly. She didn't do it on purpose. She owns a local gym in town. She has an amazing body — you should see her calves (she could break a person's neck with them). She was speaking with one of the moms last night — one who I had several pleasant, uneventful conversations with in the past — and mentioned that she broke her foot during a marathon last week. The same marathon she finished — even with broken bones. She went on to say that she could not stand being dormant and not working out so she was going to teach her pilates class anyway and still do a few spinning classes each week.

So, I know what you're thinking — 'So what, she likes to exercise?' That's the problem. Even with a broken foot and in pain, she gets out of bed every morning excited to exercise and stay fit. I, on the other hand, intend on getting up and go running most mornings. Then, I pull the covers over my head, sleep too long and have to rush to get ready for work. While working I proceed to stuff my face with croissants and diet soda (taking the occasional break to make a batch of cookies). Dang that woman. She made me feel guilty. I hate guilt (when it's my own).

So, what is the solution? I suppose I am going to have to actually exercise every day now. I should probably stop eating junk too, but I'll have to ease into it. And next week, I will show up to every game in my track suit, just to show her that I do exercise. Come to think of it, the closest thing I have to a track suit are the sweats I sleep in. I guess that's better for me. I won't even have to get dressed those days. I'll just wear my pajamas/tracksuit right out of bed and to soccer.